


Du Wyrdfell Raudhr

by Hufflepuff2401



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: AU, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hufflepuff2401/pseuds/Hufflepuff2401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days before the Fall, Morzan ends up in a place he doesn’t expect. Without any of his memories, he can neither find his dragon nor return home. Time Travel fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nameless

**Author's Note:**

> Inheritance Cycle and all characters within it belong to Christopher Paolini.

Something burned. Something close to him. He could smell the smoke as the breeze blew it into his face. Despite his efforts, his eyes wouldn’t open, almost as though his lids had melded together. The heat started to grow unbearable. He struggled, fighting for the will to move. Dry grass poked at his check and stomach. He lay on his side, curled in a ball, and his body itched all over, from his toes to his head.

Eventually, the paralysis gave way, and he succeeded in bringing one of his hands to his face. His movements were still slow, sluggish. He felt as though he had slept for an eternity. Rubbing his eyes, he managed to crack one open.

A line of fire burned and crackled before him. Smoke billowed up, obscuring what would otherwise have been a clear blue sky. Overhead, a large red bird circled. He tried to call out to it, but ended up in a body-wracking coughing fit. The bird flew northward, disappearing from sight long before he was done. Something in him broke. He tried calling out again, to make it come back. He needed it, but it was already gone, and dread settled in his stomach once he realized he was alone.

The flames slowly inched closer and closer. He scooted away, but his body didn’t seem to want to listen to him for long. It quit on him after only a few feet and he collapsed back into the dry grass. After prying his other eye open, a quick glance told him that he was surrounded by fire. There was no way out. He knew something, some word, a phrase he could speak that would save him. It danced on the tip of his tongue, but whatever it was stayed just out of reach.

A river ran somewhere behind the flames. He could hear the water coursing. Upstream, distant thatched roofs were barely visible through the smoke. He curled tighter into a ball and tried to think, to remember something, but like the words, everything seemed to disappear the moment he reached for them. And the fire was still coming closer.

People shouted in the distance. Their feet pounded against the ground as they hurried to the scene. He knew if he concentrated, he could make out what they were saying, but he was just so _tired_. He could hear the people running back and forth from the fire to the river.

“There’s someone here!” a man shouted after dumping a bucket.

He wound his arms around his legs and screwed his eyes shut. He did not want these commoners, these lowlife _peasants_ , to see him like this. His fingers clutched at his bare legs. Wherever he was— _whoever_ he was—he had no clothes, and that just added to the alarm.

The scorching heat gradually faded the more water the people threw at the fire. The ground became moist, cold even. Hands grasped at him, turning him over to face whoever had reached him first. “Can you hear me?” The man’s voice was head splitting. He tried to move away, but the hands kept him still.

Eventually, after having the man’s migraine-inducing question pounded into him three more times, he snapped, “Yes!” More accurately, he groaned out his answer, but he tried to make it sound as disdainful as possible. In a way, he was impressed that someone so far beneath him had the gall to touch him at all.

“What’s your name?”

“Mor…” What _was_ his name? People were still bustling around him and dousing the remaining fires. “Mor…” He could feel numerous sets of eyes boring into him. “Mor…”

He felt the man holding him leaned in closer. “Morgan? Is it Morgan? My name’s Trevor.”

He shook his head. That sounded wrong. It was so wrong it would have been laughable had he been able to remember what his name actually was. He forced his eyes open again to get a better look at the man. Trevor looked to be about forty. Bags hung under his dark eyes like bruises. Despite his worn appearance, his grip was strong, and his arms thick.

“What happened?” Another man asked. “Who is he?” The people around them burst into a cacophony of shouts.

“Silence!” At Trevor’s command, they quieted. “His name is Morgan, that much he said.” There was more after that. More shouting. More accusations. He—Morgan, for lack of something better—squeezed his eyes shut again. He was vaguely aware of something warm and soft being wrapped around him before being hefted into the air.

Next he awoke, it was to a small, dark room. Other than the cot he lay on, a dusty mirror, and a small dresser, the cramped enclosure held nothing worthy of note. The window was shut, but small cracks of light still managed to stream inside. Morgan—the name still sounded odd to him—slowly propped himself up on his elbows. He was alone, it seemed.

Donning the worn tunic and a pair of pants that had been left at the end of the bed for him, he grunted in distaste. He might not know who he was, but he knew that such garments were beneath his station. His body still ached all over, and he had a few minor bruises. The missing tip of his left index finger concerned him the most. The skin had long since healed over into an ugly scar. There was also an incredibly odd silver mark on the palm of his right hand.

Trevor, if he recalled the name correctly, sat at a table in the next room over. He grunted as Morgan entered. “Finally awake, I see.”

“Where am I?”

Trevor gave a glare. “I think if anyone has a right to ask questions, it would be me and the rest of the townspeople who were almost killed in that fire. It could have burned the whole village down! But to answer your question, this is Daret.”

Morgan cautiously moved up to the table and sat down across from the man. Regardless of his unease, he kept his head high and refused to let his alarm show. “I’ve never heard of it.” Despite not liking Trevor in the slightest, he needed him for answers, and that grated on his nerves to no end.

“Look, Morgan—”

“That’s not my name.”

“Then what is?”

He gave a shrug. This was probably the most aggravating part of the whole experience. He knew he shouldn’t be here, but he didn’t know why. Whatever had happened gave him an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was something he should be doing right now, but he couldn’t remember what.

“That’s what I was afraid of, Mor _gan_.” Trevor gave him a hefty stare. “The villagers are demanding answers. I don’t know what happened out there, but I can recognize magic when I see it, and nothing about you is normal.” Morgan met his gaze, refusing to give in while the man continued. “You don’t even look human. I daresay you’re an elf, but that couldn’t possibly be right.”

“An elf?” Morgan stood abruptly and practically ran back to the room he woke in, Trevor at his heels.

He found his reflection in the mirror. His shoulders were broad, his eyes two different colors, and his skin smooth. He was handsome, to say the least, and young, barely into his late teens. But his ears had sharpened to points, and his eyebrows slanted unnaturally. He didn’t look completely human, though he wasn’t quite an elf, either.

“Something’s altered me,” he said slowly. The answer to how this happened seemed obvious, but like everything else, it was beyond his reach. In a way, he felt as though his appearance was normal. “How did you find me?”

“We heard a loud explosion,” Trevor said. “Next thing we knew, there was a huge fire with you right at the center. And a terrible roar. I’ve never heard anything like it since… well, for many years now. I would very much like an explanation to what happened. So would most people here. These are dangerous times, and you’re possibly the biggest threat we’ve faced in a while.”

Morgan let all that sink in. “I don’t know what happened. I can’t remember anything. Morgan’s not my name, but I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be called.”

“I figured you didn’t remember when you couldn’t even tell me your name.”

Morgan turned away from his reflection to look at him.

Trevor continued, “You scare us. What with all the Urgal attacks, we can’t afford any more losses. Then you showed up. The people want you gone. To where, I don’t know. It’s your decision. I convinced them to let you stay long enough to recover, but I think it would be best if you leave quickly.”

Morgan sat down on the bed as he listened to the older man. He frowned, annoyed that this man would speak to him in such a fashion. He chewed on his bottom lip and thought carefully about what he was going to say. “As much as I’m loath to admit it, I am in your debt, but I have nowhere to go. I ask that I be allowed to stay long enough to remember who I am. Without those memories, I fear I would be wandering aimlessly.”

Trevor shifted uneasily, and Morgan thought that the man knew something he wasn’t letting on. “I’ll need to talk it over with the townspeople,” he said finally.

“I promise I won’t be a burden,” Morgan added quickly, grasping at his small victory. At this point, he figured he was just about ready to say anything, short of begging on his knees. “I can pull my own weight.”

Trevor gave a noncommittal grunt before shuffling out of the room. Throughout the day, Trevor left and returned to the house numerous times, occasionally bringing some of the townsfolk to speak to Morgan. Upon each return, Trevor asked Morgan questions about his past. There were none he could answer, and that made the situation all the more unsettling. Everyone treated him with wariness, and Morgan feared that they didn’t believe him when he said he could remember nothing.

Morgan spent most the day inside his designated room, ear pressed against the door to listen to Trevor and some of the other men. Trevor would probably come fetch him soon for more questioning, but in the meantime, Morgan had nothing else to do besides eavesdrop or contemplate how wrong his given name sounded and try to think of better names that fit him. He had none so far.

“He can’t stay here,” a man Morgan recognized as Aled said. “We know nothing about him.”

“But he has nowhere else to go,” Dal replied. Morgan had met the two of them earlier that day. Between them, Aled was the most adamant in his distrust of Morgan and had absolutely refused to believe anything he said.

“There’s certainly something strange about him,” said another, whose name Morgan had already forgotten. “Did you see his ears?”

“There’s definitely something magical going on here,” Trevor added. “That fire came out of nowhere. I’d bet anything that someone’s looking for him. He himself doesn’t strike me as dangerous”—Morgan snorted, unsure why that was funny—“but I’m more worried about what caused his arrival.”

There was a long silence. Then, “We can’t throw him out. Not in good conscience.”

“You’re a fool, Dal!” Aled snapped. “All of you are fools!” A loud chorus of shouts followed, and the argument fell into a garbled mass of words he could no longer discern. From what Morgan could tell, there were at least three other people in the room with Aled, Dal, and Trevor.

“Enough!” Trevor screamed over them. Immediately, the room quieted. Trevor seemed to be the leader of Daret, for which Morgan was grateful. It was his word that would decide the outcome, and even though Trevor had expressed certain distrust for Morgan, he seemed reasonable enough, or at least sympathetic to his cause. “Dal is right. I cannot knowingly throw out someone who doesn’t even know who he is—”

“Assuming he’s telling the truth!” Aled interjected.

“—so I say he stays,” Trevor went on. “However, we still know nothing about him. Let’s give him a chance and only drive him away if trouble arises.” A few murmurs of agreement followed that. “He’s promised to earn his keep, and I could use an extra set of hands. Does that sound agreeable?”

Aled said something inaudible. His voice was accompanied by the scraping of a chair and a slamming door.

“I don’t like how divided this situation makes us,” Dal said after a moment, “but I also say he should be allowed to stay. Aled won’t be the only one to disagree with this, but I stand by what I say.”

A few “Ayes” swept across the room.

Morgan retreated back toward the bed. The predicament was anything but ideal, but he supposed it would have to do for now. He could only hope his memories would resurface soon, so he could leave this dreadfully poor excuse for a town. Though actually knowing where Daret appeared on the map would also help. Trevor had rolled out a map for him earlier to see if he recognized any of the places. Morgan had been able to point out the names of different towns, but not where he was from.

“Why is Ilirea called Urû’baen on this map?” he had asked.

Trevor had squinted at him. “You know how to read, but you don’t know the name of the capitol? It’s always been called Urû’baen. Ilirea doesn’t exist.”

That hadn’t sat well with Morgan, but instead of arguing further, he went back to proving that he knew how to read. Now, sitting on the bed, he waited for Trevor to come back into the room. Approaching footsteps echoed right outside the door. He feigned innocence as Trevor entered and eagerly asked for the verdict.

“As if you didn’t listen at the door,” Trevor said. “Knowing you.”

“Knowing me? _I_ don’t even know me.”

Trevor’s eye twitched. “I expect you to rise early every morning and help me keep a lookout for Urgals, among other things.”

Morgan stared at him without blinking.

“You’ll keep a civil tongue and not talk back when I tell you to do something.” Trevor pointed his finger. “And if you remember anything, anything at all, you tell me about it immediately.”

Morgan still watched him without the slightest hint of movement, digging into Trevor’s demeanor with a simple look. The village leader didn’t quake under his stare, not as though Morgan expected him to, but he did seem put off by it. They held each other’s eyes for well over a minute, before Trevor left him with a simple command to go to sleep.

Morgan waited, his gaze never leaving the door. Well over half an hour passed before he was certain that no one else was going to bother him, so he settled down into the bed. He didn’t sleep for a long time, instead trying to focus on everything that had happened to him that day. When he finally did drift off he dreamed of a red bird circling high over his head and just beyond his reach. He tried to scream its name over and over again, but it had no name, and no words came from his mouth.


	2. The Ra'zac

“Move it!” Trevor shouted from the next room over. Morgan rolled his eyes, knowing just what to expect from Trevor’s tone. Though the village leader had relented to letting Morgan sleep in his first morning in Daret, it soon became clear that Morgan was not a morning person. Truth be told, he did wake up at the crack of dawn every day, but it was impossible not to when his window shutters stopped light about as well as a sieve stopped water. However, as they both soon discovered, waking up and actually getting out of bed were two very separate things.

Morning became somewhat of a routine for them, and it almost always consisted of Trevor screaming at him. Over the past two months Trevor had actually had the audacity to drag Morgan from his covers and dump him on the floor a couple times. It grated on Morgan to no end, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been forced to get up in such a fashion before.

He soon grew accustomed to Trevor’s ranting and threats to switch him that were never followed through, though Morgan couldn’t figure why that man seemed to lack the gall to just do it. If there was one thing he did understand, he was at Trevor’s mercy, but the man seemed uncannily wary of him. Morgan often caught Trevor just looking at him with an odd expression. Normally staring right back would make the man shift his gaze away. In fact, he was almost tempted to say that Trevor was scared of him, and he doubted it was due to his bizarre appearance.

Morgan had just moved to a sitting position when Trevor barged into the room. “I said, get up!”

“I _am_ up.”

“Get out of bed. Did you think we didn’t have work today, either?” That was another thing about Trevor, he never left Morgan alone and refused to start work without him. The rest of the townsfolk, while not liking him, had grown more or less comfortable with his presence—or in the very least, they trusted he wasn’t about to kill them all, though a good number of them still kept their distance for fear he’d spontaneously combust and set fire to the town.

He got dressed and followed Trevor outside. Daret was not a particularly lively town, and the villagers looked as though they were constantly ready for an attack. The few times Urgals or bandits had come by in his short time there, Morgan had been impressed with how quickly the whole community acted to respond to the threat and work together to combat it.

Seeing them fight off Urgals had given him a sense of excitement. Morgan longed to join the fray, no matter how short it might last. And it would certainly be better than patrolling or running errands or whatever mundane task Trevor gave him for the day. Unfortunately, Trevor wouldn’t even let him near any weapons and sent him inside with all the women and children the moment danger appeared.

The made their way to one of the buildings at the village’s edge and climbed up a rickety ladder to the roof.

“About time,” Aled snarled, when they reached the top to relieve him of watch duty. He shot Morgan a nasty glare, to which Morgan gave a cocky smile in return, before stomping off toward the ladder.

“Any news?” Trevor asked Dal the moment Aled had gone. This was the tallest building in Daret, which wasn’t saying much, but it presented them a wide view of the surrounding plains.

“We haven’t heard anything from Yazuac or other towns for weeks now,” Dal said. Daret might not have had the easiest time contacting other towns, but they were by no means completely cut off.

“Maybe the Urgals killed them,” Morgan said flatly.

Both Trevor and Dal swerved around to him. “I wouldn’t be so flippant, if I were you,” Trevor growled. “If Yazuac was unable to survive an Urgal attack, we might not be able to, either.”

Morgan shrugged. “I wasn’t being flippant”—though he really was—“but it seems to be a big problem around here. Maybe if you’d let me help—”

“No,” Trevor said suddenly. “And we’re not having this conversation again, so end it.”

Morgan slumped down. Life in Daret could be so boring. Was it too much to ask for something to do other than to sit on a roof all day? His pale skin had grown darker in his time here, and that bothered him almost as much as his amnesia did. Trevor had also insisted he grow his hair out to cover his ears and wear gloves to hide the mark on his hand. The rest of the town had already seen them, but Trevor didn’t care. He would send Morgan inside whenever travelers passed by, but he didn’t want to risk someone noticing the oddities. Morgan had become a town secret. No one spoke to him anymore about his appearance, and there seemed to be an agreement to not tell any outsiders about his existence.

“The others have been complaining about his attitude,” he heard Dal whisper.

“I know,” Trevor hissed back, “and I’m the one who puts up with it all day.”

Morgan balled his hands into fists. He wanted nothing more than to punch someone, but that would get him nowhere. Driven out of town, most definitely, but after that he had no idea.

“I swear,” Dal continued, “he acts like he’s the king.”

Trevor didn’t look happy at that statement, but before he could reply, Morgan quickly interjected, “I doubt it. I hear that King Angrenost is a spineless incompetent.”

Dal threw back his head and roared with laughter. As soon as he finished, he said, “King Angrenost? You sure are a strange one. First the Dragon Riders! Now this! Tell me, who is King Angrenost, and wherever did you hear that name from?”

“Is he not the King of Alagaësia?”

“The townsfolk are spinning you some stories, boy!”

Even Trevor let out a laugh at that. Normally his demeanor grew dark whenever Morgan said something, as though his words were blasphemous to the sanctity of the town. Unlike the others who found amusement in Morgan’s words, Trevor would normally tell him to hush.

Morgan groaned. His lack of knowledge pertaining to Alagaësia—or more accurately, his strange disposition regarding it—had led to well more than a few laughs at his expense. He might not know who he himself was, but he did remember the names of important figureheads and places. It was just that none of the things he could recall fit in with what was actually happening in Alagaësia. As such, recently some of the villagers had taken to making things up about the world to see how badly they could confuse him, and every night Trevor would have to set him straight. Morgan’s mouth tightened and he decided then to not tell Trevor that no one had mentioned a King Angrenost to him. King Angrenost was just another name to add to a growing pile of people and places that apparently didn’t exist.

“Well, I’ll be off,” Dal said, heading for the ladder. As he walked by, he gave Morgan a hefty pat on the back which Morgan certainly didn’t appreciate.

 

 

Morgan’s shift watching with Trevor had been over for a couple hours when the alarm sounded. He looked up from tying a net. Gethin used them for fishing in the Ninor, so naturally when one broke it was up to Morgan to fix it. He had fought with Trevor ever since their watch had ended about it. He didn’t know anything about nets, and it showed. Gethin had been sitting over him to monitor his work, and every couple seconds he would make Morgan redo the knots he had just tied.

At the sound of the alarm, Morgan raced to the window faster than either Trevor or Gethin could, all too eager to get away from his chore.

The sun had set well over an hour ago, shrouding the surrounding plains in blackness, but Morgan could still make out the shapes of two figures approaching on horseback. The villagers scampered around the streets outside the window. The women hurriedly ushered their children indoors while the men, both young and old, with bows and quivers strapped to their backs, climbed onto the rooftops and stared fearfully at the approaching pair.

Morgan normally sneered at their cowering, but tonight was different. Travelers were an oddity in and of themselves, but they rarely came after dark. As he stared out, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He startled as a hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind, but it was just Trevor.

“Stay here,” Trevor growled, pulling him away from the window.

“Oh, please,” Morgan hissed. “I can shoot a bow better than any of those sniffling excuses you call men can.” As he couldn’t recall whether he had ever even used a bow before, it was an empty promise, and they both knew it.

But then again, he couldn’t imagine _anyone_ more inept at handling a bow than the men of Daret. They might have been capable of reacting to threats quickly, but without Trevor, they lacked the experience to deal with those threats. They also lacked aim.

Trevor gave him a long stare. “Just stay here,” he repeated. “And keep away from the window.” He stormed out with Gethin trailing behind him after they had both grabbed bows and quivers. Gethin’s wife, Dilwen, rushed to close the shutters. After securing the latches, she moved to put the candles out.

“I would leave those lit,” Morgan said, inching back up to window and peeking through the cracks in the wood.

Dilwen gave a loud huff and put them out anyway. The house fell into complete darkness. The two travelers were closer now, swords strapped to their waistbands glinting in the moonlight. All the village men had finally reached their positions, bows strung and drawn, ready to loose their arrows in the general direction of the strangers and hope one hit.

The newcomers rode steadily into town, seemingly unperturbed by the lack of people and the overwhelming silence. They looked about under their hooded cloaks. Morgan could imagine their eyes lingering on every place the villagers hid. One even shot a glance in his direction, and Morgan knew that he had been spotted, despite the dark. Despite the fact that only his eyes were visible through the shutters. He almost shrank back as his uneasiness turned into unwelcome dread, but the need to know what was about to happen kept him firmly rooted. These were no ordinary travelers. Their backs were hunched, their postures menacing, and they bore banners, the likes of which Morgan had never seen before.

“Get away from the window,” Dilwen laid a hand on his arm. “It’s not safe.” She gently tried to pull him toward a darkened corner.

Morgan bristled at the thought. A childish fear filled him, and the urge to run to the nearest bedroom and hide under the covers steadily grew with each passing second. He dug his nails into the windowsill. It was all he could do to keep from bolting. Behind him came Dilwen’s panicked breath. After a moment, she retreated to the corner without him. Morgan was secretly glad that he was not the only one affected by the strangers, but that didn’t mean much, since the inhabitants of Daret would tremble at just about anything.

No, Morgan was the only one acting differently tonight.

The one cloaked figure continued to stare at him from under its hood as the two passed by the window and went right to the town center. Morgan knew—could _feel_ —the creature’s beady eyes boring into him. And that’s what they both were: _creatures_. As it finally broke the contact to glance at where everyone else was hiding, Morgan let loose the breath he had been holding.

While the previous and sporadic Urgal attacks had presented a danger to the village, had even been life-threatening, for the first time that Morgan could recall in his painfully short memory, unavoidable terror actually swelled within him.

He waited with baited breath for Trevor to give the strangers the same customary greeting he gave everyone. Unlike all the Urgal attacks, where Morgan had watched with glee whenever possible as the villagers fought back, he wanted Trevor to stay hiding. It wouldn’t do much—the newcomers clearly already knew where everyone was—but Morgan didn’t care.

Trevor slowly emerged from one of the rooftops, a line of archers appearing as well, their arrows aimed—well, _mostly_ aimed—at the strangers. “Who are you?” Trevor called to them. “And why have you come?”

The slightly larger of the two creatures pointed up at Trevor. From under its cloak came a foul, hissing voice. “You. Are you the leader of thisss waste of a village?”

Trevor gave no indication that the remark affected him, though that was probably because he had heard far worse from Morgan over the past couple months. “I am, I suppose,” Trevor responded. The archers glanced at each other nervously. While Trevor didn’t seem to care at the rudeness, a couple of the other men certainly did and had tightened the grips on their bows.

“You dare threaten those bearing the king’sss banner?!”

“You must forgive us,” Trevor said calmly. “We have had unfortunate luck with outsiders recently. Thieves and Urgals, to name a few. Tell us whatever it is you want, and we will do our best to accommodate you before sending you on your way.”

“They’re Ra’zac,” Morgan said, not quite sure whether he was speaking to himself or to Dilwen. He supposed it didn’t really matter that much. “Well, pupae—”

“Stop that nonsense!” Dilwen shrilled. “And would you get away from that window?”

Morgan chose to ignore her plea, too enraptured by the fact that he knew who— _what_ —the strangers were to listen to any sort of reason or even make insults at her discomfort. He could see himself sitting in a field or meadow of some kind with an unrecognizable child and an equally unrecognizable man, the latter of which was teaching about Lethrblaka and pupae. The specifics eluded him, and he could see neither one’s face. He couldn’t place the teacher’s voice as it flowed right through him and into the oblivion with all his other memories. He tried to cling to the sound. It was… comforting. And as of now, it was all he had.

“Morgan! Please!” Dilwen urged.

“They’ll find us in the dark.” He shook his head. “It’s where you go when you want to get eaten.” He flashed her a smile he knew she wouldn’t appreciate, though she probably couldn’t see it. Then, much more seriously, “You’d be better off making for the river.”

She didn’t move from where she was, and he honestly hadn’t expected her to, so he turned his attention back to what was going on outside. Immediately, he realized that he must have missed some essential part of the conversation Trevor and the strangers—the Ra’zac—were having.

“We have no desire to betray our king,” Trevor was saying. “Of course we will gladly comply with whatever he wishes, but you cannot stay here. We cannot trust you at your word.”

The Ra’zac looked to each other from under their hoods for a moment. “Then, you won’t mind answering some of our questions, yesss?”

Trevor gave a slight nod. “Only if you promise to leave.”

The Ra’zac whispered back and forth inaudibly for a moment in low hissing sounds. The taller one looked back at Trevor. “It has come to his majesty’sss attention that thisss town experienced something unusual around two months ago.”

“I don’t know what that would be,” Trevor said easily. Morgan was impressed with how steady the man could keep his voice compared to the blatant uneasiness running through the archers.

“Isss there not an entire field out there burnt and with nothing new growing in it?” the Ra’zac countered. “We will find whatever it isss you are hiding.” While the taller one spoke, the smaller one glanced back at plains for but a moment.

“We hide nothing,” Trevor said. “Someone set fire to the field and nearly burned the town down with it around two months ago. This is true, and we do not deny that. I hardly see how that is of any importance to the king.” The Ra’zac appeared agitated at that, but Trevor went on before they could interject. “The perpetrator was a young man with dark hair.”

Morgan tensed. Trevor wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —not to _them_. Not to the Ra’zac. Morgan had long thought about what would happen if someone would come looking for him, but the Ra’zac were an entirely different matter. At that moment, the town’s and Trevor’s dislike of him remained intense, and they would view this new danger as something Morgan brought, however inadvertently. Even from this distance, Morgan could see Aled’s satisfied smirk, and Aled was not alone.

Morgan waited, heart pounding, for Trevor’s next words.

“He fled down the Ninor, toward Gil’ead, before any of us could get a good look at him. I assure you, whoever he was, he has never set foot inside Daret.”

And just like that, Trevor had once again protected him, much to many people’s obvious disagreement. There would be another town meeting after this, that much was certain.

“If you’re lying to usss,” the smaller Ra’zac said, “there will be consequences.”

“As I’ve said, we would never betray our king.”

Both Ra’zac snorted at that. The taller one replied, “We can only hope, for your own sakesss, that you are an honest man. We will be back someday soon.”

“We will be expecting you.”

The Ra’zac turned around and galloped past the window Morgan stood at and out into the night. As soon as they had gone, shouting broke out among the men, but this time, Trevor did nothing to silence them. He gave a hard look at the window Morgan stood at. He backed away and went to stand next to Dilwen who had yet to move from the corner. Slowly sliding down the wall to sit, he ran his hands through his messy hair and over his pointed ear tips.

The front door slammed open as Trevor walked with more purpose than Morgan had ever seen in him back into the house, Gethin not far behind him.

Before anyone could say anything, Morgan hacked and vomited all over the floor.


	3. Emptiness

“He has to go!” Aled shouted from the next room over. Morgan rolled his eyes. They had been at it all morning, and the argument didn’t seem to be closing any time soon. Since the argument was about him, Trevor had naturally made him sit in another room, not that it mattered much when someone had a voice as loud as Aled’s.

“We promised we’d let him stay until his memories returned,” Dal shot back. “Would you have us break our word?”

“We also promised to drive him out at the first sign of trouble. Those strangers are trouble.”

Trevor said something then, too quiet to hear. Morgan slowly rose from his seat on his bed and made his way to the door. He opened it a crack and peeked through just in time to catch the last bit of Trevor’s sentence.

“—be back regardless.”

“You shouldn’t have lied to them.” A mummer of agreement followed Aled’s statement. “They might have taken him and gone, and that would have been the end of it.”

“I think we were all aware that someone would eventually come looking for him,” Trevor said, “and that he’d need to leave someday, but I wouldn’t have given my greatest enemy to those two, let alone an amnesiac boy. There was something wrong about them.”

Morgan shut the door again, not wanting to listen to the rest. It sounded no different than the meeting they had held when he first arrived. He crawled back onto the bed and shoved his head under the pillow as the voices rose higher.

Morgan let his thoughts wander away from the shouts coming through the door, and thought back to the brief memory he had experienced last night. Trying to recall anything other than the man and the child in the field was about as difficult as trying to grab air. He knew he remembered them, but if he could only make out a face, a name, a voice, even the time of day, he would have something to go on. He thought back to the red bird he had seen circling overhead during his arrival, and with that image firmly in mind, he slowly drifted off.

 

 

The fire burned, getting closer each second. Any minute now it would scorch his face. Morgan grimaced, trying to move, but something kept him firmly rooted to where he lay. Overhead was the bird, but this time it was not alone. There were thousands of them, each a different color. They swooped down, and Morgan could see that they actually weren’t birds at all. The one let loose a mighty roar before crashing into him and slashing with foot-long claws.

Morgan screamed, twisting to get free. It grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. Somewhere off to the side came the shrieking laughter of the Ra’zac. Morgan’s head swam, and the sky slowly turned from blue to a thatched brown. Trevor looked down at him, hands on Morgan’s shoulders.

“It’s just a nightmare,” Trevor said calmly.

Morgan shoved him off, turned, and presented Trevor his shoulder. “What do you want now?”

“Some peace and quiet would be appreciated.”

Morgan grunted in reply. He blinked his eyes a couple times to ward off the sleepiness still plaguing him and was rewarded by the feel of hot tears running down his face. “What was the verdict? Can I stay, or is your town of spineless barbarians too afraid for that?”

Trevor frowned and gave a long sigh. “They’re not happy about it, but I convinced them that those strangers will return regardless of whether or not you’re here. You may stay for now, but we might have to give you over upon their return. Until we think of something else, that’s the plan. I admit, I’m not too happy with that idea.”

“Splendid.”

“Do you want to tell me about your dream?”

“No.” That came out much too quickly for Morgan’s liking, but Trevor didn’t say anything more on the subject. He just sat at the edge of the bed like some expectant parent waiting for his child to cave in, and Morgan had no intention of doing so.

After a long stretch of silence, Trevor said, “Have you remembered anything yet?”

The “No” that followed that question came out even faster. “Well… I don’t know, and I don’t want to talk about it,” he amended.

“Our deal was that you would tell me whenever you remembered something.”

“That was your deal, not mine. And it was just a dream.” A half-truth, and he knew it. The man and child had been no dream.

Trevor sighed again. “Get dressed. You have chores to do today.”

As if that were different than any other day. Morgan vaguely wondered how many times Trevor would make him wash the floor before nightfall. The village might be small, but it was certainly not short on hands. Sometimes Morgan just knew Trevor had no idea what he wanted him to do for the day. Or maybe it was the fact that Trevor didn’t want him doing anything that would involve putting him near something sharp, and that severely limited his options.

After getting dressed, Morgan found Trevor with Dal in the main room. Their hushed whispers stopped immediately upon his entrance. Morgan sat down and stared disdainfully at Trevor while he waited for someone to start speaking. Trevor gave a small cough. “About your chores, Dal and I have been thinking”—Morgan huffed—“that it would be best if you stayed indoors today.”

“So you want to leave me alone while you go do something useful?” Well, about as useful as anyone in Daret could be. Morgan had a strong inkling that his days here were some of the dullest he’d ever experienced. “The villagers must really hate me.”

Trevor sighed. “They don’t _hate_ you,” he said slowly. “But you are a mystery, and the unknown has a habit of cruelty. They need a couple days to calm down. It’s not _you_ they’re scared of.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. At Trevor’s next sigh—an action Morgan was sure the man didn’t do nearly as often before his arrival—he knew his wicked grin must have portrayed just how obvious Trevor’s lie was to him.

“We just don’t know why you’re here,” Dal said as Trevor ran his hands over his face and through his hair. “The villagers know you—they don’t like you. I don’t even like you, and your oversized ego doesn’t make dealing with you any easier, but no one is scared of _you_.”

No, maybe not him. Morgan could give them that. They were scared of whatever brought him here, or whatever might be looking for him, like man-eating strangers riding into the village last night. Morgan debated telling Trevor and Dal who those strangers were. He knew he should, but the truth that creatures like the Ra’zac were after him was not going to further endear him to anyone.

“So what?” Morgan shrugged. “You want me to sit inside all day with nothing to do?”

“I thought you would appreciate it,” Trevor answered. “And this way I don’t have to listen to you complain about your chores.”

“There’s _nothing_ to do. If you don’t want me in town, at least let me explore the surrounding area, or swim in the river, or—”

“No.” Trevor’s glare cut through whatever else he had to say. Morgan had seen him upset before, but never mad. Aggravated or exasperated, without doubt, but his current tone and the look in his eyes actually had Morgan silent and made the grin slip from his face. “Those people might come back, and they’re looking for you. I do not care what you may or may not think, but while you are here you will listen to me and abide by my rules. And if you so dare to fight me on this, so help me, I will tie you to your bed and lock the door.”

Morgan barely stopped himself from scoffing, but Trevor’s piercing gaze certainly contributed to the lack of anything disrespectful Morgan may have had to share. “Keeping me in here isn’t going to make last night disappear.”

“This conversation is done!” Trevor’s hand slammed against the table. Morgan couldn’t stop his flinch, not sure if he was reacting to Trevor, or to the brief flash of memory the action wrought. For a moment he found himself at a desk, staring at an angry, faceless man, while broken sobs came from somewhere over his shoulder. It left Morgan at yet another loss for words, which Trevor evidently took as acquiescence, for he stood up and stormed from the house, slamming the door behind him.

Dal pushed himself to his feet. He laid what was probably supposed to be a comforting hand on Morgan’s shoulder, gave a small squeeze, and ambled out, much to Morgan’s relief. The emptiness Morgan felt at their departure was far more unsettling than he imagined it should be, though it wasn’t _their_ presence he missed. Someone important to him had abandoned him. There was a tendril in his mind, reaching out, searching, but at the other end a vast nothingness greeted him.

Morgan lost track of how long he sat there. The minutes melded into hours, and by the time Trevor came home for lunch, Morgan hadn’t moved. He refused to engage in whatever conversation Trevor tried to start, so the man ate in silence, sometimes glancing up to look thoughtfully at his young charge. Morgan didn’t realize when Trevor went out again, but some food had been left on the table for him. Finally coming out of his reverie, Morgan shifted. He stood, opened the front door a crack, and peeked out. Seeing neither Trevor nor Dal, he made his way into the street.

The villagers glanced cautiously at him, and the children had long learned to steer clear at the behest of their parents.

None followed him out of the village as he made his way to the Ninor and found a bank far from where Gethin and some of the other men liked to fish. The water was cold, and by nightfall, it was near freezing. Both Morgan and his clothes were dripping wet when he made it back home. Trevor sat in his typical spot at the table, glaring as he entered. Wordlessly, Morgan moved past him. He stripped bare before crawling into bed, not having eaten anything the entire day.

It stormed heavily that night.

When he awoke the next morning, it was to a tray of food next to his bed and a locked door. The storm hadn’t relented yet.

 

 

During the days that followed, no one spoke to him about the strangers—no one other than Aled, who also kept nagging him and Trevor about whether or not Morgan had remembered anything yet. Instead they just whispered about it behind his back. Trevor had relented to letting Morgan out of the house again, not that the locked door did much when there was still a window and the room was on the first floor, no less. But Trevor finally had given in, not that actually being allowed outside was any more thrilling. At least wandering around without permission had been sort of fun, albeit in an incredibly juvenile way. But Trevor had quickly grown tired of it. He more than likely had decided that he would rather have Morgan as an irritating shadow than someone running around unsupervised.

Trevor worried, though Morgan couldn’t figure why. Other than his initial appearance, he had never actually threatened someone from the village—but Trevor now acted as though Morgan’s mere existence would light another fire, or worse.

No, that was wrong. Something else had him on edge, and it was as though the Ra’zacs’ visit had simply clarified something for him.

The two of them were currently headed for Gethin’s to buy some fish for supper. The sun had barely risen and the wind was as obnoxious as ever. Though Morgan had just dragged himself from bed, Trevor had been on watch all night. Almost no one was out yet, and those who were, were out of hearing distance.

Morgan supposed that would have to do, though he should have done what he was about to do before they left, or at the very least, waited until they got back inside. “Trevor.”

Trevor grunted in reply.

“The night the Ra—those strangers came, I remembered something.”

Trevor didn’t even stop walking. “I know.” Obviously. “Unless it’s your name, where you’re from, or anything else useful, I don’t want to hear it right now.” He gave Morgan an expectant look.

Morgan shook his head. “Nothing like that, but that night I dreamed of an enormous red dragon.”

Trevor stuttered and coughed into his hand, ceasing walking. His eye twitched. “Really? What else did you dream?”

This was it. Trevor _knew_ something. “That’s all of it,” Morgan said. “You woke me up.”

Trevor searched his face, as if looking for any hint of a lie. A long moment later, he abruptly turned and resumed his trek. “Don’t mention it again. The rest of us have had enough of your nonsense.”

Morgan bit back his comment. He didn’t know what he’d just learned, but he’d learned _something_ , and that was more than he had these past two months. Trevor didn’t find anything he had to say odd or fanciful like Dal and the others; Trevor had found it unnerving. Something about Morgan had the man off, and it wasn’t the way he appeared, or his elflike qualities. Morgan wanted to press for more, but for now, he probably wasn’t going to get much.

He trailed behind the man, calculating how to go about what he needed to do. But he didn’t want to wait. He’d been waiting for months now, and Trevor had useful information he’d withheld. Morgan didn’t know what that might be, considering the short amount of time they knew each other, but anything would help at this point.

No sooner had they reached Gethin’s than a horn from the highest rooftop bellowed. Trevor cursed. “What now?” He swerved around. “You”—he pointed at Morgan—“run home and hide. If it’s those strangers again… just stay out of sight.”

Before Trevor could run off to help the men emerging from their houses, Morgan said, “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated. “I don’t want to hide anymore. I doubt it’s the—those strangers.”

“It could be Urgals,” Trevor replied. “And I refuse to have you armed. You’ll only get in the way.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “If you say so,” he muttered. Then, louder, “I promise to hide if it’s Urgals or those strangers. But can you not give me this one chance to prove myself?” Trevor didn’t say anything, but Morgan could practically see his thoughts churning behind his eyes. “Please?” he relented to prompting, smiling as charmingly as possible. At Trevor’s typical sigh, he knew he had won.

“Fine, I don’t have time for this right now. But first, go home and grab a cloak with a hood that hangs low and your gloves that I see you neglected to put on this morning. The last thing we need is someone confusing you for an elf.”

Morgan’s pointed ears and slanted brows had rounded out during his stay, but not by much. At his current rate, he’d probably look completely human within the year, which quite frankly, he found upsetting on some level, though content with on another. At least then, he wouldn’t have to hide nearly as often, but he felt as though he were losing a part of himself in the process.

Regardless, he practically skipped home. After doing as he had been told, he raced back to the center of town where Trevor stood giving orders. Due to past experience, the villagers didn’t need too many directions, and it was only a few minutes before everyone had settled into place and Morgan was sliding behind a house after Trevor.

“It’s not Urgals, is it?” he asked, though he already knew the answer from everyone’s calm— _calmer_ than usual—demeanor.

“No, just men,” Dal said. Morgan followed his gaze. Two figures on horseback rode toward them. For a brief second he thought the Ra’zac had returned, but the horses were different and their riders uncloaked. The Ra’zac wouldn’t choose to come in daylight and without their disguises.

“What is _he_ doing here?” Aled hissed. Morgan grinned at him.

“He insisted,” Trevor said.

“They could be the men from before,” Dal said. “Morgan’s not safe here.”

“They’re not them,” Morgan interrupted before Trevor could respond. “These ones are human.”

Dal laughed, while Trevor groaned. “These ones are human?” Dal smiled, showing jagged teeth. “What were the last strangers? Dwarves? Your fellow elves, perhaps?”

“I’m _not_ an elf,” Morgan snarled.

“Enough!” Trevor snapped. “Now is not the time. Everyone be silent. I expect, Morgan, for you to keep your mouth shut, a challenge, to be sure”—a snicker, from Aled, which Trevor ignored—“and I would greatly appreciate it if no one else encouraged him.”

“Yes, sir,” Dal said, as he and Aled resumed their positions.

It was only a few minutes later when the two riders entered the town. The older of the two gripped a sword in one hand, while the other held a bow with much more skill than Morgan had seen in anyone other than Trevor. They both looked about at what must have seemed like a deserted village and moved silently. The wind hadn’t let up, and it kept sending strong gusts swirling between the buildings.

After reaching the center of town, the older one whispered something to his companion. They both spurred their horses to gallops, but some of the men in hiding pushed their wagons out from behind the different houses and blocked their path. Trevor jumped up on one of the wagons with his own bow and commanded them to put their weapons down. At his voice, all the archers revealed themselves on the rooftops.

“What do you want?” the older stranger said more calmly than Morgan would have thought possible with a couple dozen arrows pointed at him.

“Why have you come here?” Trevor countered.

After the man responded that they just needed supplies and to hear the news, Trevor inquired to their weapons, but their reason for carrying them seemed to be the same as the village’s for hiding whenever someone new came by. After around a minute of less-than-friendly banter, the strangers conceded to staying put while someone fetched the supplies they needed.

“All right.” Trevor lowered his bow, and signaled for one of the archers. As the man reached the ground, Morgan stepped out in front of him, blocking his path. Trevor snarled at him, but Morgan just smiled imploringly. Trevor looked up at the sky as if asking for reassurance. Then, “Fine! Just this once.”

Morgan was giddy with excitement. Granted, running errands wasn’t something worthwhile, but this was the most contact he’d had with the outside world since… well, since ever, he supposed.

As he waited for the older man to list what he needed, he felt a strange tugging, almost like a pull on his mind. Immediately, he imagined a strong wall protecting his thoughts, and the tugging stopped. The older gentleman blinked, then continued his list.

Morgan hurried off to grab what they needed, leaving Trevor and everyone else behind. He ran to Gethin’s house, where Dilwen waited inside for him, obviously having listened at the window.

“What were you thinking?” she said. “After last time.”

Morgan rolled his eyes as she helped him gather everything he needed to. He was sure Trevor would yell at him for this later. After all, allowing him to not hide was a far cry from throwing him in front of heavily armed men. He came out and deposited the goods next to the older man’s horse. A solemn silence had befallen the place, and he could only imagine what Trevor and the strangers must have talked about while he was gone. Whatever it was, everyone was uncomfortable with it.

As he rose from where he set the order down, another gust of wind came through, just strong enough to blow his hood back. He reached up to hold it in place before it blew off completely, but it was too late. The strangers could clearly see his face and his ears. The younger one gasped, but the older one looked almost fearful. His eyes widened, and he jolted back, nearly falling off his horse. Their eyes locked, and Morgan found himself staring into cold blue eyes. The shock in which was quickly replaced with confusion, then sheer revulsion, followed by a mixture of the two. And somewhere along the way, disbelief had wormed its way in there.

The man shook it off. “…Murtagh? No.” Then, the revulsion was back.

Something about the gaze had him completely captivated. This was bad, he knew. There was a fire in those eyes reserved only for him. The stranger opened his mouth and uttered one more word that sent chills racing through his body. The word hung in the air.

“Morzan.”


	4. Morzan

Morgan didn’t know what to think, and clearly no one else did either. Trevor, Dal, even Aled, and everyone else looked on in horror. An uncomfortable silence thickened the air. Though it couldn’t possibly matter anymore, Morgan quickly shoved his hood over his face. In the back of his mind, a little voice told him that this was exactly why Trevor always made him hide. But his pride wouldn’t allow him to acknowledge that, so he did his best to push the voice away.

The stranger’s look only hardened. It didn’t seem right, but either this man knew him, or he just really hated elves. The former would be a nearly impossible coincidence, and the latter would be completely unfair. He _wasn’t_ an elf. Damn his ears, damn them and their pointiness. And for that matter, damn the wind too.

“Um…” Morgan started to grow uneasy under the stare. Off to the side, the man’s younger partner glanced between the two. Realizing there was nothing he could do to change what had happened, Morgan held out one gloved hand, palm up. “I need you to pay me.”

“It’s not possible…” Other than that, no one moved, least of all the man.

“Um, sir?”

A bruising grip snatched his wrist. Before he could register what had happened, the man spun him around and twisted his arm up behind his back, and something cold and sharp pressed itself against his neck. Somewhere, he heard the pull from bow strings being drawn tight. At the prospect of sudden death, Morgan did something any well-dignified person would do: he screamed out for the one person he trusted most in a decidedly prideful and not terrified screech.

“Nobody move!” Trevor’s answering call rang out, though it did nothing to ease the tension. “You’ll hit them both.”

The knife pressed deeper into his neck and his arm was twisted up even further. It hurt so bad, Morgan was sure any more pressure would break the bone. With both his hands busy with Morgan, the man had left himself completely open to an attack that nobody seemed to take for fear of hitting his hostage. His younger compatriot had his bow aimed straight at Trevor, while all the archers of Daret had aimed theirs at the three of them. No one dared to loose a single arrow.

“What are you doing?” the younger one hissed. To his credit, he looked just as dumbstruck as Morgan felt.

The man didn’t answer right away, and Morgan could feel his own heart pounding in his chest as everyone waited for a response. Finally, “I acted without thought, but I know him, and he cannot be allowed to live.”

“Hurt him,” Trevor said, “and you won’t leave here alive.”

“This is all one big misunderstanding.” Morgan did his best to give the man the most dashingly innocent smile he could muster. “I’ve honestly never—” The grip pulled his arm up even further. Morgan bit his tongue, holding back a scream. Tears welled in his eyes.

Trevor had drawn his bow, and one long narrow shaft pointed itself straight at Morgan’s captor. “My men might accidentally hit him,” he said, “but I won’t miss. Let him go, and we can send you on your way peacefully. There’s no need for bloodshed here.”

“Brom?” the younger companion prompted hesitantly.

The man—Brom—cursed his own foolishness. “I will explain later,” he said to the boy, “but he”—he shook Morgan, causing another pull on his arm—“knows me, and he’ll give us away.” Then, louder to the rest of the villagers, “Do you not know who this is? You have allowed a snake to live among you. I can only imagine how he tricked you, with all his charms and false promises, but I know him well. He’s a thief and a murderer, and he will betray you the first chance he can.” At the end of his proclamation, murmurs and whispers broke out among the ranks, but if anything, instead of being deterred, they grasped their bows tighter. Trevor narrowed his eyes, but to Morgan’s surprise, the glare was directed at Brom and not at him.

Morgan seized his chance. “Trevor, I swear, I don’t remember ever meeting this man before—”

“I know.” At Trevor’s voice, once again Daret fell silent, as it often did.

Everyone seemed at a standstill, waiting for what this Brom man would do. If he killed Morgan, as he appeared to so desperately want, Trevor would loose his arrow, but then so would Brom’s partner. And following that would be all the archers. Morgan imagined that the majority of Daret was more concerned for Trevor than him, but some of the looks, like those on Dal’s face, or even Dilwen’s, who had just run from her house to watch the proceedings, had him questioning the validity of such a thought. He supposed it was possible that the village had grudgingly come to accept him as one of them, dislike aside.

Such a thought did nothing to make him feel better about his current predicament.

“Perhaps there is an agreement we can come to,” Trevor supplied.

“Perhaps there is,” Brom said, but there was danger hidden in his voice.

“If you truly know him, which I believe you do, then we have much to discuss.” Trevor slowly lowered his bow, as a sign of peace, which didn’t really matter since the other archers keep theirs aimed. “Just let him go, and I promise to tell my men to lower their weapons. We have waited months now to find someone who knows him, and spending such time with him has certainly tested our level of tolerance. I can only imagine what wrongs he has done to you, but I ask that you not hurt someone who cannot even remember his own name.”

Brom reared back at that, before composing himself again. “Cannot even remember his own name?” he repeated, before leaning down and whispering in Morgan’s ear. “I do not know how you managed to survive or what your purpose here may be”—the grip on Morgan’s arm pulled further still, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out—“but I will find out. You must have known you couldn’t hide forever.” He sat back up again, and addressed the whole crowd. “I will agree to release him, under the conditions that my nephew and I remain unharmed. I have many questions.”

“As do we,” Trevor agreed. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

Brom nodded, and though he looked reluctant to do so, he let go. The moment Morgan was free, he bolted straight toward Trevor, but Dilwen intercepted him and crushed him in a powerful motherly hug. Morgan barely registered Trevor signaling his men to lower their arms as he grasped at her tunic, much like a small child would, too upset to bother conserving what dignity he had left. For now, he was safe again.

The tension hadn’t left any of the townsfolk, however. Despite the fact that he was no longer in any immediate danger of dying, any semblance of relaxation was lost on Morgan as well. Overhead, a single bird flew, sparkling like the Ninor at sunrise. No one paid attention to it.

“Let’s go inside,” Trevor said. “Dal, Aled, you know who to gather for the meeting. I fear everything has changed this day.”

“Indeed,” Brom agreed. “Stay here,” he said to his partner, who did not look happy at that command. Morgan could sympathize, as he was certain Trevor planned to exclude him from what was about to happen as well.

Dilwen hugged him tighter as Brom walked by. Morgan’s eyes met his for one brief second. Then, Brom was gone, inside with the other men.

“Come on, dear,” Dilwen cooed gently. She pulled him in the opposite direction, toward her own house. Morgan had a feeling that this day would be very long, and yet, as it progressed and the meeting wore on, he didn’t feel as though it were long enough.

 

 

It was all too soon by the time Trevor came to fetch him. Morgan and Brom’s partner—Evan, who kept insisting Brom was called Neal—sat at Dilwen’s table. Two village men stood by the door, knives at their belts should they need them. Evan kept watch on them from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t seem too concerned by them. Dilwen had taken to stitching a hole in one of her husband’s tunics, but other than that, no one seemed to want to say anything. Well, no one other than Evan, who wouldn’t stop pestering Morgan with questions.

He had long lost track of how many times he had said, “I don’t know.” In the end, he was all but growling it. Clearly, the uncomfortable mood did nothing to deter Evan and make him shut his mouth. Finally, Evan had given up asking about who Morgan was, and instead settled on more mundane things.

“How is it possible that your eyes are two different colors?”

“It’s what happens when people with different colored eyes make a baby,” he shot back without hesitation, wondering whether or not Evan would at least figure out that he didn’t want to talk. Seriously, asking Morgan why his eyes were the way they were was like asking what made Aiedail rise every morning.

Evan frowned at him and pouted, but blissfully Trevor’s entrance cut off his reply. Morgan’s trepidation rose as Trevor locked eyes on him. “Come, Neal would like to speak with you.” It was less than comforting to know that the man who had just threatened Morgan’s life wasn’t being completely honest when it came to his own name. Morgan couldn’t imagine that this was going to go well.

Evan moved to stand as well, but Trevor halted him.

“Not you. Not yet.”

Evan scowled as Trevor led Morgan away from the house, but Morgan was all too relieved to be separated from the boy. The relief was short lived as Trevor took Morgan outside and he caught the looks of the other villagers. Somewhere among them stood Aled. Gone was his usual sneer, replaced with something Morgan couldn’t read. Reverence? Fear? Hatred?

Trevor continued to lead Morgan past his own house and to the edge of Daret.

“Where are we—?”

“To where we first met.”

Up ahead, Brom inspected the remains of a charred field. At the center of it Dal stood with him. He supposed he could be thankful that Aled remained absent from what was about to happen, but if Morgan were honest with himself, he would rather Aled than Brom. He had waited so long for answers, but those answers coming like this hadn’t been what he expected.

As they approached, Dal and Trevor each nodded to each other. Morgan could feel Brom’s eyes boring into him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet the look. Not now, at least. He should, though. He knew he should stare right back and keep doing that until Brom broke the contact, but he didn’t want to.

He wasn’t alone in that sentiment, as no one seemed to want to start any sort of conversation.

Trevor cleared his throat after the silence continued to wear on the four of them. “Well, ah, we’ll just leave you two at it then.”

Morgan tore his eyes away from the barren ground. “What? No.”

Trevor and Dal wouldn’t leave him alone with Brom. They couldn’t, not after what Brom had done only hours ago. What had this man told them about him? It could be anything. For all they knew, Brom had no idea who Morgan was. Maybe Morgan only looked like someone Brom knew, but his memory loss made it impossible to know for sure.

“You must forgive me,” Brom said, seeing Morgan’s reaction. He seemed to choke on his own words. “When I saw you, I acted on instinct, letting my own fear and hatred take over. And I endangered both myself and my nephew in the process. I am… deeply ashamed of my actions.”

Morgan tensed, still refusing to meet his eye. That was the most forced apology he had ever heard.

Trevor patted him on the back. “We’ll be right over there within sight just in case, but you two need to talk.”

“He tried to kill me!”

“But he didn’t,” Trevor said. “And he promises to not hurt you so long as you are under my watch.” Morgan tried to protest some more, but Trevor beat him to it. “When I took you in, I told you I expected you to do as I tell you to. I’m not asking; I’m telling.”

He turned to walk off. Dal made to pat Morgan on the shoulder as he often did, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he just gave a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, before trudging after his designated leader.

Brom—Neal, or whatever he was called—watched the exchange silently. Trevor and Dal stopped just at the edge of where the fire had been. New grass hadn’t started growing back in. Morgan doubted it ever would.

“Morgan, is it?” Brom said.

Now that Trevor and Dal were out of the way, Morgan found he had no trouble meeting the other man’s eyes, or getting a really good look at his face. Brom was _old_. But he had an air about him, something that immediately raised the hairs on the back of Morgan’s neck.

“That’s not what you called me earlier.”

“Indeed.”

“Morzan.” Morgan let the word roll off his tongue. It sent a shiver running down his spine. “Is that really my name, Brom? It is Brom, isn’t it?” Brom’s look of surprise was immediately hidden behind a mask of indifference. “I suppose Evan isn’t really your nephew either, or that Evan is even his name.” Brom just watched him as he spoke. He slowly stepped forward and started circling Morgan, studying him. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

It took Brom a moment to respond. He moved behind Morgan, continuing his inspection. “Which name sounds better to you? Morgan or Morzan.”

Morzan. Without a doubt. He’d grown used to the other, but it had never felt right. It wasn’t him. “How are you so sure I’m this Morzan fellow?”

Brom stroked his beard. “Yours is a face I will never forget. And you don’t necessarily blend in all too well. Not many people have eyes like yours, or a missing finger. And your features are significantly elven.”

“ _Am_ I an elf?” He realized that he had subconsciously balled his hands into fists, clenching them tightly to the bottom of his tunic. He stopped such a childish display instantly, hoping Brom hadn’t noticed.

“No.”

“Half elf?”

“No.”

“Then why—?”

“I need to see your right palm to confirm my suspicions. Trevor’s already told me of the mark, but I wish to see for myself.” Brom moved back in front of him.

Morgan shot a sharp glance at Trevor, who was talking intently to Dal too far away to hear, though ever watching both Morgan and Brom. He slowly peeled off his glove. After having the silvery mark hidden for so long, giving Brom his bared skin felt as invasive as standing naked before the man.

Brom sucked in an air of breath. “Damn. There’s no doubt anymore. Trevor and I both know it. You are Morzan.”

Morgan bristled. “Trevor doesn’t know anything. You probably tricked him into thinking I’m this hideous person you hate so much.”

“Then it’ll surprise you to know Trevor knew who you were the entire time. If you don’t believe me, ask him later.”

“No,” Morgan shook his head. “He would have told me. He would have—” he broke off. Trevor _had_ been hiding something from him, but there was no logical reason behind it. Morgan supposed it was possible, but not probable. And were it true, Morgan couldn’t think of why Trevor would hide it. Brom had called him a lot of bad things. Liar, thief, traitor. But Morgan was young. He doubted that he could have gathered a well-known or widespread reputation at such an age. Maybe had the problem been local; he was pretty sure no one in Daret had seen him before the day he first appeared.

“Trevor met you over fifteen years ago when he served in the king’s army,” Brom supplied at his hesitation. “You were, for lack of a better term, a high-ranking official.”

“The king must be pretty desperate. I would have been a toddler.” Morgan replaced his glove.

“You were older then, as odd as it sounds.” Brom frowned. “For your age I have no explanation. Nor do I have one for your being alive. You died shortly before Trevor left. The story goes that someone shoved a sword through your chest.”

If anything, Brom was raising more questions than he was answering.

“Now,” Brom said. “Tell me exactly what happened the day you appeared.”

“Trevor could tell you more. I wasn’t necessarily conscious the entire time.”

“So he said, but I need to hear it from you.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, and told Brom what had happened, including the visit from the Ra’zac. He doubted Trevor left that part out from Brom’s reaction. Evidently, Trevor was significantly more comfortable sharing what could possibly be life-sensitive information with someone he didn’t even know. Morgan was actually a little hurt that Trevor didn’t think he could tell him something like this. He wasn’t a stranger anymore, he didn’t think. He was certainly less of one than Brom, unless the two of them had met before. He supposed anything was possible, given how this day was going.

At the end of his story, which was short, due to not being awake for half of it, Brom nodded and headed over to Trevor and Dal.

“Wait!” Morgan shouted at his retreating back.

Brom glared, but nevertheless stopped.

“I still have questions.” He was at the center of this, whatever it was, and no one felt the need to divulge anything. They were treating him like a child, and he was sick of it. “How did we meet? Why do I look like an elf? Who was I, really?”

“We met as children.”

“But you’re so _old_.”

“I aged.”

“Then why am I so young?” he said.

“I told you all you need to know,” Brom snapped back.

“You didn’t tell me _anything_!”

Brom didn’t say anything more. Morgan ran after him as he started back to Trevor and Dal, eager to for more information, but Brom wasn’t forthcoming. At long last, Brom said, “Trevor and I both agree that for your safety—though that’s not something I’m interested in at this point—you continue calling yourself Morgan. No one knows who Morgan is, but they know Morzan, and they won’t hesitate to kill him.”

Brom’s words were clipped and forced, spoken through gritted teeth, but maybe that was because he was one of the people he was speaking about. Had Morgan appeared anywhere else, had Trevor and the rest of Daret not been there today, Brom would have killed him.


	5. Conversations

“You knew!” Morgan shouted while Trevor rummaged around the room with a knapsack. “You knew who I was this whole time and never said anything!” He had long lost track of whether or not his shrieks were questions or exceedingly angry remarks. Besides, Morgan—no, he supposed it would be Morzan now, which was much more fitting—just wanted to rant and pull his hair out by the roots. Trevor seemed more than inclined to listen without interruption, which only aggravated Morzan more. “I spent all this time not knowing _anything_ ”— he still didn’t know anything—“and you had all the answers.”

Another trademark sigh. “Enough, Morgan.”

“Not my name. Try again.”

“Yours is not a name anyone in their right mind should use, not in this age.” Trevor started wrapping a loaf of bread with a cloth. Morzan plopped down into a chair at the table and huffed. “Do as Neal says and stick with Morgan. You’ll live longer that way.”

“Why? What did I do that was so bad?”

Trevor gave yet another sigh. “Not everyone thinks you’re evil. Some would hail you as a hero.” So Morzan had pissed off a lot of people. That much, he had gathered and didn’t find that surprising. The hero thing was nice, though. Morzan didn’t imagine himself one for heroics, but he’d take the praise. “A lot of people would try to kill or hurt you, possibly use you, if they discovered you were alive. You’re safer this way.”

People like Brom. “No, I think you and everyone else just _feel_ safer if I don’t know anything.” Morzan slouched.

“Neal and I—”

“Brom,” Morzan snapped. “While we’re on the subject of real names, he’s called Brom.”

“ _Neal_ and I both agree that this is best.”

“Neither one of you is my parent. And from what I can tell, I was your superior when you served, so technically, _you_ should be listening to _me_.”

“Well, I quit a while ago, and you’re no longer a battle-hardened warrior who commands respect, so deal with it.”

Morzan muttered a curse under his breath, just loud enough for Trevor to hear, but the man didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he continued to pack. He left the kitchen and returned a moment later with a bundle of clothing, which he began mercilessly shoving into the pack. Morzan was so busy brooding he almost didn’t notice what Trevor was doing. “Why are you packing _my_ things?” Well, the things that had been loaned to him by Trevor and the other townsfolk.

“You can’t stay here any longer, both for our safety and yours,” Trevor said. “Neal refuses to leave you here, and I doubt I could stop him from taking you if he really wanted to, knowing him.”

Morzan frowned. “He’s a frail, creepy old man with a beard long enough to trip over.”

“Neal is giving you the options of leaving with him or dying here,” Trevor ignored him. Some options. “Those Ra’zac will be back for you someday, and he’s worried they’ll take you to the king.” He scratched his chin. “I don’t know whether or not I agree with that. I don’t trust the Ra’zac, but the king _would_ protect you. Unfortunately, there’s little I can do in this situation. Too many people know who you are now. Before, I wanted to take you to Urû’baen myself, but I couldn’t leave Daret unprotected.” He placed his hands on the table a released a shaky breath.

Morzan stared in horror. There was just too much to take in, which was saying something, because he still had no idea what was going on. Brom had backed him into a corner by his very arrival. He was so old he looked as though he would croak any day now, but Morzan would be lying to himself if he didn’t believe there was a power behind the man. The two of them obviously shared some kind of history together, which was disturbing, because it implied that Morzan was old too, and he didn’t want to be that old. That was ancient. He’d wondered what he had done to the man numerous times in just the past day alone. At first, he had sheltered the idea that maybe he’d stolen the man’s wife or something equally ridiculous. But when he’d remembered the age difference, he’d become disturbed _and_ nauseous.

He shook his head. “Brom will—”

“ _Neal_.”

“—probably just kill me the moment we leave.”

“It’s possible,” Trevor said. “But if you stay, you’ll die regardless. Neal cannot let you live in peace. He cannot trust you, and he has friends, one might say, who will stop at nothing to kill you if he fails. I swore to protect you when I realized who you are. My unit and I used to idolize you. You were— _are_ —a symbol to the king’s men. A war hero. I’m loyal to the Empire, though many wish it were otherwise. I had to keep you safe.”

Trevor _idolized_ him? How absurd. “But you hate me. You think I’m an obnoxious, arrogant prick.”

“I’d only seen you before. We never met until you came here. Little did I know what you were really like,” Trevor smirked. The sudden jest threw Morzan off, and he didn’t know how to respond to such a thing from someone usually so serious. “Yes, you annoy me, to say the least, but I can still remember watching you on the battlefield. Anyway,” Trevor went on, jovialness all but gone from his voice, “I made a deal with Neal. I told him that if I ever discover if anything bad happens to you, I would stop at nothing to tell the king that he’s alive too.”

Morzan held back a snort. It seemed like everyone had died at some point or another. “So he’s also back from the dead? I’m not the only one?”

“No. He just disappeared. You had a sword run through your chest.”

“Lovely.”

“Then there’s your age to consider. You are most definitely younger than you should be. The Morzan I knew, well, he was old, even if he didn’t look it. But now? You’re barely a man.”

Morzan glared at him for that last comment.

Trevor continued packing for him, though it wasn’t much, only a few spare articles of clothes and some food. Morzan did not feel inclined to help, though he knew he should. It would be him leaving, after all, and he should be the one making sure he had everything he needed. For once, he found that he didn’t want to leave Daret, or the people there. It was the closest thing he had for a home—the only place he had known as a home. Somehow, leaving behind everything like this didn’t feel that unfamiliar to him. He wondered who he had left behind in his past.

“So…” Morzan began slowly, choosing his words carefully, “what can you tell me about… Neal?” As an afterthought, “Please.” Be polite, he reminded himself.

“Not much,” Trevor said, glancing at Morzan warily. “And I don’t think he wants me to tell you what I do know.”

Damn it.

“But there are _some_ things,” he went on. “Common knowledge, you might say. I don’t know much about Neal’s involvement, but I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you about the Varden and Surda. There’s not much to say, but you’ll be sure to raise suspicion if you haven’t at least heard of them.”

Morzan leaned forward, elbows on the table, and listened with rapt attention. Anything. Any information would do, and whatever the Varden or Surda were, if Brom was involved, Morzan probably had a history with them too.

Trevor was right, though. The information he had wasn’t much to go on, but Morzan filed it away in his head for later regardless. It could be useful, though he couldn’t do much with it for now. The king, whom Morzan apparently supported for one reason or another, had problems with a secret society of sorts dedicated to overthrowing him. Well, all leaders couldn’t please everyone, but the Varden had to be fairly large to cause such a thorn in his side. The Empire and Surda had diplomatic relations, which would be tedious at best, considering the rumor that Surda supported the Varden. And if that were common knowledge, the king definitely knew about it too.

But more worryingly, if Brom had connections to the Varden, and if Morzan truly was a well-known and powerful supporter of the king, it was entirely possible that Morzan would find himself exposed to the Varden in the future, and that wouldn’t bode well for him. Were these the friends who would ensure Morzan’s death if he refused to leave? They had to be, and Morzan would do well to steer clear, but he couldn’t fathom how to do that if he went with Brom.

He felt more uneasy than he had only minutes ago about leaving with the man. Brom was practically a stranger to him. A dangerous stranger, no less.

His worry must have shown through, because Trevor immediately said, “This isn’t a death sentence, I don’t think. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

Morzan nodded. His future, however, looked bleaker every passing second.

“Neal and Evan want to leave first light tomorrow morning.” Trevor laid a hand on his shoulder. At the moment, Brom and Evan were camping somewhere outside town. Since none of the villagers wanted them nearby, the arrangement seemed to suit everybody. “Neal will collect you then. I suggest going to bed early tonight.”

 

 

Morzan couldn’t sleep. His nerves wouldn’t let him. He lay tossing and turning in bed all night. He felt as though he was being exiled. That, or kidnapped. There wasn’t much off a difference in this situation. Both the villagers and Trevor wouldn’t want him around anymore. Today had been the second time dangerous people had come for him. Well, Brom hadn’t arrived with Morzan in mind, but that didn’t change anything. And Brom’s refusal to allow Morzan to stay and live was also pulling him away from the only life he had known.

If there was one thing Morzan knew about the world he had woken up in, it was that he hated it. He hated everything about it. He hated Daret. He hated Trevor. He hated his ears and the mark on his hand. He hated Brom and his annoying companion. He hated himself, and that hurt the most.

But also, he hated not knowing.

Everyone had contented themselves in his ignorance, and he was determined to change that. He resolved that he would find out everything he could. If he was going to survive living with Brom, he needed to know what he’d done to the man and act accordingly.

He was still awake when the sun rose and Trevor came for him. Together, the two of them walked to the edge of Daret. No one greeted them as they passed the bundle of homes, not that Morzan expected them to. He had arrived glamorously, but he was leaving almost entirely unnoticed. At one point, he thought he saw Dal and Aled staring at him from behind some of the windows, but on a second glance, no one was there.

“It’ll be quieter not having you around anymore,” Trevor mused. “You certainly were interesting. Just keep in mind that Neal will probably hate your odd stories more than I do.”

The man in question rode up to them on horseback. One of Trevor’s older mares was with him, already tacked. Trevor quickly strapped the supplies he had packed last night onto the saddle, and then Morzan hefted himself up.

“Well, this is goodbye then.”

Morzan nodded. He was torn between Daret and Brom. He didn’t want to leave with someone who hated him so much, but he didn’t truly want to stay in Daret either. None of the answers he needed were there. “I promise to come back someday,” he finally said. Trevor frowned. “If you want me to.”

A slight, broken smile. “You’re welcome in my house anytime, just not right now.”

Brom said nothing during the exchange, but when it appeared that neither Trevor nor Morzan had anything else to say, he signaled for them to leave. Morzan walked his horse beside Brom’s and didn’t look back.


	6. Half Truths

Morzan had mentally prepared himself for many things when Daret had become nothing more than a cluster of dots in the distance. Brom killing him had been one of those things, but not _this_. He should have just given up trying to figure out what would happen next, because nothing ever went the way he expected it to.

Certainly, he had been prepared for some hostility, but not for the tip of a dragon’s nose sniffing him up and down, a snarling dragon nose at that.

He stood completely still, worried that the slightest movement would cause the dragon to open her maw and devour him. It was a female dragon, though he didn’t know how he knew to tell the difference. Maybe he’d been around dragons in the past, or had a fascination with them. After all, he had tried to regale Trevor and everybody else with fanciful stories about the Dragon Riders before Trevor had told him they were all dead.

He hadn’t known how to respond upon seeing the dragon sweeping down toward him from the sky with the sun shining brightly behind her. It was a sight he would never forget, but terror had quickly replaced his awe when the aforementioned creature lashed out at him, only stopping at her Rider’s behest. Now, Morzan had a bruised hip to go along with the ache in his arm from when Brom had threatened him.

The dragon—Saphira, he thought he heard Brom call her—moved her muzzle up to his ear and sniffed his hair. Despite the warmth from her breath, he couldn’t stop his shivers. Brom stood off to the side, going through what Trevor had packed for him and paying little attention to what was happening, while Eragon watched Saphira and Morzan with keen interest.

Eragon. He supposed it would be a fitting name for a Dragon Rider, and it was just Morzan’s luck that Brom would be accompanied by one. Not only was Morzan a well-known army general, he was someone worthy of a dragon’s anger. Truly, he got more interesting by the minute, he thought to himself dryly, and would surely have taken Saphira’s reaction as a complement of sorts if it weren’t for almost dying again. He was sorely tempted to flee back to Daret, but he would never be able to outrun Saphira.

However, for the moment he was still alive, and that was something.

“Well, then,” Brom said, glancing up from Morzan’s effects, “everything seems in order. Let’s get a move on it.”

Morzan barely spared him a glance, before continuing to watch Saphira from the corner of his eye. She moved down to his four-fingered hand, sniffed, then gave him a nudge in the shoulder before continuing her inspection on the other side of his body.

Brom led both his and Morzan’s horse over to where he and Saphira stood while Eragon climbed into his own saddle. Morzan, however, still refused to move, something that didn’t seem to sit too well with Brom. The man glared, but Morzan could still hear Saphira snarling, and between the two, he was more afraid of her.

At this point, he almost wished Trevor had given him over to the Ra’zac, because at least then they would have taken him to the king, and he wouldn’t have to worry about dragons.

“Do you make a habit of not listening?” Brom said.

No—Yes, he did, but honestly, there was a _dragon_ sniffing his neck. He’d listen as soon as she was done with him. “Um…” he started, “I _heard_ you; I just didn’t care.”

Saphira swung her head up to stare at Eragon. The two shared a long moment together before she reared back on her haunches and took to the sky once more. Morzan closed his eyes and exhaled. Relief flooded through him, and he relished it.

“Eragon,” Brom said. “Why don’t you go on ahead? Morgan and I have some things we need to discuss. Don’t worry.” He gave a slight smile at Eragon’s immediate protest. “I’m not going to tell him anything I didn’t tell you last night. We’ll catch up in a minute.”

Eragon huffed. “Fine.” He trotted his horse off.

Morzan watched him go. Before, he had thought of Eragon as nothing more than an annoyance, and… that still hadn’t changed, but he _was_ a Dragon Rider. Morzan actually found himself wanting to just sit down alone with him and talk. He doubted he’d gather much information, especially if Eragon was anything like Trevor or Brom, but the experience would be worth it.

Brom mounted his horse and motioned for Morzan to do the same. After Morzan had hauled himself into his own saddle, Brom pulled his mount right up next to his. Morzan watched him warily, and flinched when the two were so close their legs brushed against each other. Once again, he felt a strange tugging at his mind and snapped his figurative walls back into place.

Brom muttered under his breath, then said, “Put your hands behind your back.” He took Morzan’s reins and fastened them to his own saddle.

“You can’t be serious!”

“Very.”

Morzan spared a glance at Eragon, who was a good distance away by now. High above, Saphira circled. “And what does your nephew think about all this?”

“He’s not my nephew.”

“Oh, what about a son, then?”

“He’s my student, you could say. Hands, please.”

Morzan glared. Who was this Brom that he could teach a Dragon Rider? To be fair, though, that was currently the least of his concerns, as he didn’t fancy riding a horse with his hands tied behind his back. Just being outside Daret seemed dangerous enough without adding in everything that could go wrong if he were bound on a horse.

“Is this really necessary?” he asked.

“Yes.” Brom didn’t wait for a reply, and instead just grabbed both of Morzan’s arms.

Morzan chose not to fight as Brom snuggly tied his hands together by the wrists with a small piece of rope. He needed Brom for answers, he told himself, but this was getting to be ridiculous. They were travelling with a Dragon Rider, so how much of a danger did Brom think Morzan could possibly be?

As soon as Brom deemed Morzan completely incapable of anything but just sitting there, he spurred their horses into moving forward. Morzan let his feet dangle loosely in his stirrups, mindful to not let them slide too far in. The last thing he needed was the horse to buck him off and then drag him along by his ankle; though, he had an inkling Brom wouldn’t mind such an outcome.

“Eragon doesn’t know your real name,” Brom said at last. “You are Morgan now, and you will stay him if you don’t want to be killed. Also, don’t mention your palm or anything else unusual about yourself to anyone.”

“Whatever.” It wasn’t as though Eragon hadn’t already seen his ears.

Morzan watched the scenery as they rode, intent on paying as little attention to Brom as possible. As much as he was mad at him, he still needed the man, but it was well more than apparent they didn’t get along in the past, and that definitely hadn’t changed.

“Ignoring me won’t change anything. Don’t forget, _I know_ _you_ ,” Brom scolded. “I have half a mind to kill you and be done with it.”

“Only half? That’s a change.”

“Just be thankful you’re still alive.”

Morzan smirked, ducking his head so Brom wouldn’t see. His effort was wasted, however, as Brom was going to great lengths to not look at him. “You don’t want to kill me,” he said. “Well, maybe you do, but not until you figure out how I’m still alive. Am I right? Otherwise, I just might come back again.”

“Be quiet,” Brom growled.

“I’ll behave if you tell me more about me.”

“No.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Morzan whined. “Here I am, bound and completely at your mercy, and you can’t even tell me _anything_?”

“It’s better this way. Besides, I don’t want to risk the return of your memories.”

Except that if he had his memories, Morzan would probably know how he had ended up in Daret to begin with, which was a question they both wanted answered. This was so aggravating. All his answers, or just about all of them, were sitting in the next saddle over, but they were sealed behind a cranky old man who looked as though he hadn’t picked up a razor in the past decade.

“Can you at least tell me where we’re going?” he asked.

“We are hunting the Ra’zac,” Brom said. “Daret was out of the way for both them and us. I suspect the king must have sensed your arrival and told them to investigate on their return from Eragon’s home in Carvahall. To be honest, I sensed it too, and had Yazuac not been destroyed, I would’ve steered Eragon clear. I don’t need him falling into unnecessary danger. He’s too important.”

Of course, the two of them would be hunting the Ra’zac, the creatures Morzan kept having nightmares about, because that was also just his luck. “Important to the Varden? Trevor told me about them.” He grinned. “They’re friends with you, right?”

“That’s another thing you will _not_ tell Eragon about.”

“Or what?”

“I will gag you.”

And Eragon would probably not care. Morzan still didn’t know what Brom had told Eragon about him, considering that the Rider didn’t know who he was either. It must have been something really bad, though. Morzan had hoped he could use Eragon’s naivety to his advantage, and he probably still could, but he needed to know what Brom had said first. At the very least, though Eragon wouldn’t trust him, they both had something in common; Brom wanted to hide the truth from both of them. Morzan vaguely wondered whether or not Eragon found Brom’s evasiveness as annoying as he did.

Regardless, he needed Eragon to side with him, despite whatever Brom told him. It’d not only be beneficial to become friends with a Dragon Rider, but he would need someone to trust in case Brom did decide to kill him.

“Fine,” Morzan rolled his eyes, “I _promise_ not to tell Eragon.”

The boy in question was still traveling some distance ahead of them, but he was much closer now, something Morzan was grateful for. He was sick of being bound on a trotting horse and longed for when they could change to a slower gait.

“Wait a minute,” Morzan said. “What do you mean Yazuac was destroyed.”

Brom bowed his head. “Urgals. They killed everyone. I worry that Daret might be next.”

Morzan felt ill, but not about Yazuac. He remembered joking about Urgals destroying the town, but he didn’t necessarily feel bad about it. No, he was actually worried for Trevor, and quite possibly for the rest of Daret, as well. Or maybe his nausea came from all the trotting. He didn’t imagine himself as someone used to riding, let alone someone who enjoyed it. He couldn’t fathom how someone so sickened by riding a horse had managed to become a war hero.

“Trevor knows what he’s doing,” Morzan said. “They’ll be fine.” The proclamation seemed more for himself than it did for Brom, and it earned him a raised eyebrow from the man. “How did you sense my arrival?”

“I’ll keep that to myself.”

“Bastard.”

They were upon Eragon’s horse now, and Brom slowed their mounts down to move beside him. Only, Eragon wasn’t on his horse anymore. His was pinned underneath one of Saphira’s forelegs. The two of them were staring intently at each other. Eragon was the first to relent, dropping his gaze to the ground.

“Well?” Brom said.

“She wants me to ride with her tomorrow,” Eragon replied in a tiny, defeated voice. “She doesn’t think it’s safe for me on the ground anymore.”

How the hell did they communicate? Morzan couldn’t figure it out. Was it some sort of mind thing? As far as he could tell, Saphira didn’t talk. Maybe it was a mind thing. That would fit in with what he knew of the Dragon Riders, and he felt like an idiot for not realizing it before.

Saphira turned her head to gaze at Morzan. Her eyes were piercing. Ferocious. While Brom may have bent the truth about him for Eragon, he had no doubts that he hadn’t done the same for Saphira, which just added to the lousy feeling Morzan had.

He missed Trevor.

Pathetic. It hadn’t even been a full day, and he was pinning after the people of Daret.

But he also missed not being treated like the vilest scum to ever live. Unfortunately for all he knew, he was. Putting up with this would be a small price to pay for when he managed to get his answers.

Brom and Eragon bantered back and forth for a bit about his flying. Finally, Saphira took off again, and Morzan was grateful.

The rest of the day, they rode on, only stopping occasionally. Brom and Eragon talked about magic, of all things, and Morzan was all but forgotten in the background. Every once in a while, Eragon would ask a question and shoot Morzan a disgruntled look as though he were concerned whether or not he should hear the answer. Brom didn’t seem to care either way, though, and listening at least gave Morzan something to do.

The sun had almost set before they stopped to make camp, and Brom still didn’t want to untie him. Morzan had spent the majority of the day _not_ complaining about his bonds, in hopes Brom would take his good behavior as a reason to untie him, but evidently not.

Brom and Eragon took up practicing with wooden sticks as makeshift swords that night, and it left Morzan even more time to ponder his lot in life. He sat cross-legged on a blanket Brom had set out for him, across the fire from the other two. He didn’t know how long it would take to catch the Ra’zac, but he couldn’t stand much more of this. And while the Ra’zac was a goal Brom and Eragon were after, Morzan didn’t know what was going to happen to him in the long run. For the time being, the uncertainty of his situation and the need for answers on everyone’s part was the only thing keeping him alive, but that didn’t tell Morzan what Brom planned to do with him in the future. The man couldn’t keep him tied up forever, after all. He’d be too much a burden.

The training sticks broke in half. Brom tossed what remained of his into the fire and told Eragon to do the same. “It is time for you to use the blade.” He reached into Eragon’s bag and withdrew a sword with a wine-colored sheath and a strangely familiar symbol on the side.

Eragon sputtered, “We’ll cut each other—”

“Hey!” Morzan shouted before he could stop himself. Both Brom and Eragon spun around to him simultaneously. “That sword. That’s—”

“We’ll continue tomorrow,” Brom said quickly, “and go to bed early tonight.” He put the sword away and gave Morzan a meaningful look. Eragon opened his mouth, possibly to question Brom’s decision, but the old man answered before he could ask anything. “He used to know Zar’roc’s previous owner,” Brom explained. “I think he recognizes it.”

Eragon nodded.

 _Liar!_ Morzan screamed the word as loud as he could within the confines of his own mind, unsure whether he was angry at being talked about as though he wasn’t there or if the whole situation was just getting to him. In the end, he decided it was both. _You sorry bastard!_

He wished above anything else that he could strangle the man.

_Liar! Liar!_

“Enough!” Brom’s shout penetrated his thoughts.

Morzan fell backward at the sound. Just in time, too, because Saphira’s tail slapped down right where he used to be sitting. Brom clutched the side of his head, and Eragon had covered his ears. Morzan blinked, and for a second he was confused as to whether he had actually screamed his thoughts out loud or if they had _heard_ what he was thinking.

“I couldn’t erect my walls in time.” Eragon slowly lowered his hands, but what he said just confused Morzan further.

“I told you last night that Morgan was dangerous,” Brom replied. “And he has been trained. But this was a good lesson. He caught me off guard as well. Always be prepared.” The two stood watching him from over the fire, while Saphira moved to stand and stare at him from behind them. Eragon looked disgruntled, and he abruptly turned and announced loudly that he was going to sleep.

Brom and Morzan stayed locked staring at each other as Eragon went to curl up under Saphira’s wing.

“You mustn’t project so loudly,” Brom said.

“I don’t even know what I did,” Morzan snapped, “but that sword, Zar’roc—”

“Is of little consequence right now.” Brom knelt down in front of him, so they were at eye level. “You have a lot of power, but you don’t remember how to control it, and teaching you how is not something I’m too keen on doing. You are angry; I am too, and I understand.” He looked strained, as if even talking to Morzan in a civilized tone required all his willpower. “But the next time you lose control, you _will_ regret it.”

“Or you’ll what?”

Brom frowned. “Just don’t do it. We don’t need you attracting unwanted attention.”

“Because a sparkling blue _dragon_ blends in so well.” Saphira snarled at that, and Morzan sneered in return.

“Good night,” Brom said.

“You don’t honestly expect me to sleep tied up like this, do you?”

Brom just shoved him until he was lying down. Apparently, Brom did, and he didn’t care how uncomfortable it was. Morzan rolled over and presented the man his back. All his efforts as the afternoon had worn on to not complain and get Brom to trust him had been wasted in a single moment, and he still didn’t understand what he did. But whatever he’d done, it had only solidified Brom’s resolve and reminded both him and Eragon that Morzan was not to be trusted for whatever reason.

He found sleep difficult in his anger. Brom sat next to him for a bit, rigid. He supposed Brom wanted to wait for him to fall asleep before going to bed himself. The man was paranoid, but Morzan took pleasure in the fact that if he couldn’t sleep, neither would Brom.

Brom, for his part, didn’t seem to mind. After a long while, he started humming a slow, pleasant tune. Morzan had no choice but to listen, and it was to this song that his eyes slowly drifted shut.


	7. Resentment

The next morning Morzan awoke stiff and sore. His arms and his shoulders had cramped due to hisuncomfortable position and the skin on his wrists burned from constantly pulling against the rope. He sat up slowly, his joints cracking painfully as he did so. Saphira was the only other one awake, unfortunately, but at least she seemed content just watching him. Brom lay sleeping under the low-hanging branches of an old tree, and Morzan assumed that Eragon was also still asleep under Saphira’s wing. Until one of them awoke, it would just be him and the dragon.

When he moved to stand, Saphira let out a low warning growl. Morzan rolled his eyes and sat right back down. It wasn’t as though he had anywhere he could go, and if he had, he wouldn’t have gotten very far with his hands tied. But still, the confinement just made him scorn the situation that much more.

With nothing else to do, he thought back to what Brom and Eragon had talked about yesterday: magic. They had talked openly with each other and had all but ignored Morzan’s presence. At the very least, magic was surely the reason he was back from the dead, unless he hadn’t actually been killed. But being stabbed through the chest seemed like a sure way to die.

Unfortunately, he didn’t know much about magic other than what Brom and Eragon had talked about. And watching Eragon float pebbles didn’t qualify as an answer to his questions.

He needed his memories, but he didn’t know if they were just repressed or if they’d been magically removed for some reason or another. And if it were the latter, had it been due to the same spell that brought him back from the dead and made him young again? A scary thought, because if he was alive due to a spell connected to his memory loss, removing it could possibly kill him.

Morzan shook his head. He was about to start thinking in circles and just confuse himself more in the process. Besides, if he was as bad as Brom seemed to think he was, why would anyone go to the trouble of bringing him back to life, only to remove his memories? It made no sense, but Morzan didn’t think that was going to be the case regardless. The answer was probably staring him in the face and he was just too blind to see it.

He leaned forward and concentrated on the rocks lying before him. It wouldn’t do him much good, but if magic held his answers, he had best get started at trying to figure it out. If he could mentally shout at people, he was sure he could lift a rock. After all, Eragon could do it, so why not him?

“Stenr reisa.”

No sooner had he said the words than the rocks before him shot to the air and hovered in front of his face. Morzan blinked. He had expected some resistance at first. He thought he heard Eragon say that it took him a few tries to make a single stone wobble, let alone float half a dozen at the same time with little to no effort.

Who was he that he could do magic?

And if he could do this with relative ease, what else was he capable of?

Saphira growled again. Morzan snapped his concentration away to her and the stones fell. By her side, Eragon pushed himself out from under her wing, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Her growl must have woken him.

He looked to Saphira for a moment, then said, “You can do magic?”

“Apparently.”

“Brom failed to mention that.” Eragon frowned, and his eyes shot quickly to the old man’s direction before returning to Morzan, mistrust welling up within them.

“I think he failed to mention a lot of things,” Morzan said.

“Of course,” Eragon nodded. “I suppose it makes sense, considering last night.”

Morzan didn’t feel the need to respond. Eragon fell into silence too. He appeared to be having another conversation with Saphira, and Morzan could only assume it was about him. That, or it was about Brom being an obnoxious liar. If he could only hear the conversation, he would know their take on everything, but as it was, he could only guess. Besides, he didn’t want to test whether Brom would hold true to his unspecified threat should he try to invade their minds again. Of course, he still didn’t know _how_ to access that power of his.

Eragon gave another nod, and then went over to Brom, completely ignoring Morzan.

“Well,” Morzan said. “What did she say?”

“To not talk to you anymore than I have to.”

That figured. He narrowed his eyes at Saphira, who stared back at him impassively.

Eragon shook Brom’s shoulder. He jolted awake, pulling a knife out from under his tunic and quickly locating where Morzan sat harmlessly only a few feet away. Brom pushed himself to his feet and headed over to Saphira.

“Good morning.” Morzan smiled at the man, being sure to make his voice as annoyingly happy as possible.

Brom grunted and started fastening what looked to be a saddle to Saphira. Eragon set about preparing breakfast. Morzan hadn’t expected a reply, so he wasn’t upset at the lack of one. After all, Brom had tied his hands behind his back and left them like that all night, in addition to all the threats. There wasn’t much the man could do to make Morzan even more uncomfortable at this point.

“Personally, I think it’s a wonderful morning,” Morzan continued on cheerfully. “The sun is shining and warm, the birds are chirping like it’s time to mate, I just discovered I could do magic, on top of reading minds, no less—”

Brom spun around faster than Morzan could blink.

“—the ferocious dragon hasn’t eaten me, yet”—Saphira snorted, and a puff of smoke billowed from her mouth—“and I’m nowhere near as cramped as I could be from being bound all night long. All in all, it’s a beautiful start to a beautiful day.” Throughout Morzan’s speech Brom glared, concern in his eyes, and Morzan couldn’t help but grinning all the more.

Eragon had just finished setting aside three portions worth of bread and cheese for breakfast when Morzan had finished speaking. He looked up from what he was doing, and told Brom what Saphira had told him about Morzan and the rocks.

“Is that so?” Brom said, though his question sounded more like a statement than an inquiry.

“Saphira doesn’t think keeping him with us is wise,” Eragon said. “Did you know he could do magic?” Morzan hoped he didn’t just imagine the accusation in Eragon’s voice. All this secrecy was grating.

“I had hoped he wouldn’t realize his powers,” Brom said. He rubbed his temples with his palms. “This is a right mess we’re in.”

“So you did kn—?”

Morzan threw his head back and laughed. “Of course, he knew! How could he not?! Because, apparently, he knows everything there is to know about me.” Then, to Brom, “You didn’t honestly think what you and Eragon talked about yesterday wouldn’t interest me, did you? Or that I wouldn’t try it myself.”

Brom glowered. “I did, but Eragon’s studies are important and cannot be halted for any reason. Not even because of you.”

Morzan raised an eyebrow. If Brom didn’t think Morzan was reason enough to halt Eragon’s lessons, they wouldn’t have forgone sword practice because of him. It made no sense. It was then that Morzan realized something: Brom had no idea what to do with him. Morzan had known this before, but he hadn’t known just how utterly lost his presence made Brom.

“You know,” Morzan said, “floating pebbles is really easy. I wonder what else I can do.”

Saphira snarled.

“You can be quiet,” Brom growled, and went back to securing the saddle.

“You’re no fun.”

“I will gag you.”

Morzan grinned even wider, wondering whether or not Brom knew any other threats. “And miss out on all the witty conversations we can have while Eragon’s off flying with Saphira? And here I thought we were on our ways to becoming great friends—”

“We’re not friends!” Brom stormed toward him and towered over him menacingly, and Morzan flinched back, though he managed to keep grinning, albeit not as strongly as before. “We will never be friends. You are a murderer, a liar and a coward, a thief and a desecrator. You betrayed everything good in the world in order to twist it to your own selfish needs. I only brought you along to keep an eye on you. The moment I discover how you survived, I will kill you.” At the last part, Eragon’s facecontorted into what looked like shock.

Morzan shrugged. “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“It’s nothing less than what you deserve,” Brom snapped. “You’ll never change. You think you’re funny? You’re not. This is exactly how you acted when you—” He cut himself off.

“When I what?” Morzan prompted, and even Eragon had leaned forward, obviously eager to know more. “Don’t stop there. Honesty is the best way to build trust. I have confidence that you and I will be best of friends by the time all this is over.”

Brom looked as though he wanted to throttle him, and it was taking a great deal of effort not to. At last, the man turned and stomped off.

Morzan knew he should have stopped, but knowing how much this man hated him and how easily he could nettle him could prove vital. Besides, it was making his morning worthwhile. It wasn’t as though there was much else to do out here, and Saphira was no longer as awe-inspiring and ferocious as he initially thought when they first met. And he had thought Daret was dull…

“I’ve never seen him so angry,” Eragon said.

“I’m certain I have,” Morzan responded.

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think you should be killed,” Eragon said. “But I don’t know anything about you, only that you serve the king and that you’re dangerous, but Brom didn’t tell me why.”

Morzan turned to the younger boy and gave a small nod. “Thank you, I suppose.” He then eyed his share of the food that Eragon had set aside. “So… you want to untie me so I can eat?”

“No” came the definite answer. Saphira blew out another puff of smoke.

“Um…”

“You can eat when Brom comes back. I don’t trust you.”

Damn. And Morzan could already hear his stomach growling. “Well, at the very least, can you tell me why you’re hunting the Ra’zac?”

 

 

They had been late in getting back to their travels that day, mostly because it had been well over a few hours before Brom had returned, and following that had been an argument between Saphira, Brom, and Eragon, which Morzan couldn’t exactly follow since he couldn’t hear half of it, but at the very least, he had gotten his breakfast. Form what he _could_ hear, the argument was about whether or not Eragon would go flying with Saphira, because in light of Brom’s recent tantrum, Eragon didn’t trust leaving the man alone with Morzan. That, and if he kept Morzan’s hands bound, Brom would be hard pressed to keep control of both Morzan’s and Eragon’s horses.

In the end, Morzan’s hands were freed while Saphira and Eragon went off. Brom, however, made Morzan ride either beside him or in front of him, but never behind, and he kept him within sight at all times.

All in all, due to their extra one night stay at Daret and the slow morning, Brom and Eragon were both frustrated at falling behind on the Ra’zac’s trail. And while Eragon was hesitant to blame Morzan for that, Morzan had the feeling Brom wasn’t. The two of them rode in uncomfortable silence, with Morzan trying to look anywhere but at the old man.

“What’s your horse called?” Brom said suddenly.

“Well, how about ‘horse’?” Trevor had told him her name some time ago, but naturally Morzan hadn’t cared enough to commit it to memory.

Brom frowned, and for a moment Morzan was relieved that his forced attempt at conversation had been so short lived. He didn’t think he’d be able to talk to the man without doing something to make him angrier, which he didn’t want to risk without Eragon around. His relief, however, died when Brom felt the need to continue, “That’s not a proper name; you should think of something better. Mine is Snowfire, and Eragon’s is Cadoc.”

Morzan let out a long sigh. “Well, who did you think I was originally back in Daret?”

“What do you mean?”

“You called me something. I think it was Murtagh.”

A vein pulsed on the side of Brom’s forehead. “You are _not_ naming your horse that.”

“Why not?” Morzan said. “I think it’s a good name.”

Brom’s jaw locked, and he slowly managed out through gritted teeth, “Not for a _mare_ , it’s not.”

“Murtagh it is, then!” Morzan declared. Brom didn’t say anything else, and like that, the awkward conversation ended. After another minute, Morzan said, “So who is Mur—?”

“No.”

 

 

Sometime later that afternoon, Brom found deep groves in the ground next to a pile of footsteps the Ra’zac had left. Morzan stood off to the side as Brom knelt and inspected them. He closed his eyes and tensed up. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow, then he stood upright and said, “Eragon and Saphira are coming.”

“Wonderful.”

After the two arrived, Morzan watched in amusement as Brom berated Eragon for something regarding mind reading and walls before explaining the tracks they had found. Upon seeing Morzan, Eragon let out a sigh of relief, then joined Brom in his inspection. Both of them seemed confused by the tracks, and eventually concluded that the Ra’zac must have flown off.

“They aren’t dragons,” Brom said. “I know that much. A dragon would never—”

Morzan snorted. “Of course they’re not dragons. They’re Lethrblaka, and probably the Ra’zac’s parents.”

“You know what did this?” Eragon asked, wide eyed. “What are the Lethrblaka?”

Brom groaned. “Trevor told me you’re full of odd information.”

Morzan rolled his eyes and, having already called attention to himself, told both of them and Saphira about the brief memory he had had with the man and the small child in a field, and then he told them about pupae and Lethrblaka.

“This was a memory of yours?” Brom mused, rubbing his beard. “And you say there were a man and a child? Can you tell me more about them?”

“Not really. I can’t remember their faces.” Morzan shook his head. “But I think the child was a boy, and I think we we’re having a lesson of sorts. I’m pretty sure the boy had fallen asleep for it.”

Brom’s eyebrow twitched. “Of course he did,” he muttered. It was then that Morzan realized Brom had to know exactly who those two were. He opened his mouth to say something, but caught the look in Brom’s eyes, and decided against speaking out. Why wouldn’t Brom know who they were? He knew everything. And not only did he know everything, he knew that Morzan knew he knew everything, and he didn’t care.

“So what now?” Eragon said.

“That’s your decision,” Brom replied. “Right now, we have two mysteries to deal with.” He gave Morzan one last meaningful look before turning away.

“Morgan’s your mystery, not mine!” Eragon snapped. He tromped off, but didn’t make it too far before his foot collided with something small and shiny on the ground. A moment later, he let out a yelp and ran back, showing both of them his discovery, and a burnt finger. Morzan grimaced and reached for his stub. Brom probably knew how he had lost his finger, too.

Morzan retreated back to Murtagh and ran his fingers along her neck. She let out a whinny and nudged him in the shoulder. Brom and Eragon were making plans involving something called Seithr Oil, but Morzan wasn’t paying attention. Saphira had craned her head down until it was almost resting above Eragon’s, and Morzan felt a pang at the sight. He turned his back on them and tried to shove the feeling of loss away, but he couldn’t, so he continued to pet Murtagh and imagined something bright and red. The though was both comforting and saddening.

“It’s settled, then,” Brom said loudly, pulling Morzan from his reverie. “We’ll go toTeirm. My old friend Jeod lives there. He might be willing to help us. He’s a merchant, and he has a wide extension of books. We may yet find the Ra’zac and the answers to other problems.” He gave Morzan a forced smile.

Morzan shouldn’t have been happy, since he knew Brom wanted to kill him once he knew why he was still alive, but he couldn’t stop the sense of excitement that washed through him. He found himself smiling back at the man, but this time it wasn’t mocking or disdainful; it was genuine.

Unfortunately, what small peace their group had achieved couldn’t last for long.


	8. Frustrations

Their journey to Teirm in the upcoming weeks may have been more or less safe, but it had been trying—oh, _had_ it been trying. The animosity between Morzan and Brom would have been bad enough, but both Saphira and Eragon had taken sides in the matter—Saphira supported Brom, and Eragon, not understanding the situation according to Brom and Saphira, found himself defending Morzan—and a dragon at odds with her own Rider created a whole new set of problems no one wanted to deal with, especially when it came to Brom’s lessons. After all, Brom and Morzan were going through enough between each other, without throwing in Eragon’s and Saphira’s drama. The two still maintained the close connection a Rider and dragon shared, but it was strained, to say the least.

The incident that started everything—or rather sped up what had already been escalating since Daret—took place a couple days after the discovery of the Seithr Oil, when Brom had been teaching Eragon more words in the Ancient Language and Morzan decided to participate. After what had happened with the stones, Morzan would have thought Brom would expect him to try partaking in the lesson. It wasn’t as though Brom planned to stop teaching for fear of Morzan overhearing them. For the most part, the man seemed content to ignore him. Besides, other than Morzan riding off on Saphira on the days Eragon didn’t—a possibility which had been destroyed by Saphira’s adamant refusal, and no one wanted to argue with her on the matter—there was no feasible way for Brom to teach without Morzan being there.

Though it became apparent to Morzan very quickly that Eragon had stronger magic than either him or Brom—he did have a dragon, after all—Morzan had a much easier time committing words to memory. More often than not, he didn’t need to wait for Brom’s translation in order to understand the meaning behind a word, which he took as further proof that he had studied magic in his past. He also took pleasure knowing that he was better at something than a Rider, or at least that his education was further along. On top of the enjoyment he got out of Eragon’s frustration at his lesser knowledge, Morzan felt he was learning something about himself during the lessons, and that made any fight between him and Brom well worth it.

“Jierda,” Eragon repeated after Brom.

Brom nodded his approval once he was satisfied with Eragon’s pronunciation. “Now, that means—”

“It means ‘break’,” Morzan said, then used the word to snap a fallen tree branch. He smiled. Eragon may have had more strength behind his spells, but Morzan could do them with much more ease.

Brom pulled Snowfire up beside Murtagh. “Would you stop?”

“Make me, old man.”

Brom glowered. If exasperation had been Trevor’s trademark expression, glaring would be Brom’s. “I can, but believe me when I say, you don’t want me to.”

“Why is it such a problem?” Though Morzan already knew the answer. He was dangerous, he was a traitor, and he was every other bad thing Brom could call him. The repetition had gotten tiring. “I mean, I already know the words”—not entirely true, as he couldn’t remember them until _after_ hearing Brom or Eragon say them—“so your lessons are just rehearsal to me. It’s not as though I’m asking to participate in your little sword practice every night. And by the way, I would beat Eragon at that too.”

“I very much doubt that,” Brom said. “You don’t even know if you’ve ever held a sword, let alone used one.”

“Well, seeing as you gave him _my_ sword,” he hissed lowly, so only Brom could hear him, “I’m going to guess that I have.” Despite knowing that he was the owner of Zar’roc, Brom would never let Morzan hold it, or touch anything sharp for that matter. He was much like Trevor in that regard. Unfortunately, Morzan couldn’t remember seeing Zar’roc before. He just had a strong feeling about the sword, a feeling that said it belonged to him, and he felt compelled to trust it.

“It’s not _your_ sword.” Brom locked eyes with Morzan’s. He had lowered his voice as well. “It’s mine. I took it from your corpse. It hasn’t been yours for years, and it never will be again. You may not remember everything you’ve done—”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Morzan interrupted before Brom could go on another one of tangents, “but I’m not dead anymore. And if Zar’roc’s ownership is determined by my livelihood, I’m pretty sure it’s mine again. But while we’re on the topic, thanks for looking after it for me.”

Brom’s dour expression darkened even more. He and Morzan stared at each other, both refusing to break contact. Finally, Brom said, “No, you can’t have it back. And unless you want to be bound again _and_ gagged, stop doing magic.” Then, he pulled his horse away and went back to teaching Eragon some more words.

 

 

After the sun set later that night, Morzan sat by the campfire, jealously watching Brom and Eragon spar. Zar’roc flashed as Eragon swung at Brom’s side, but Brom parried the blow and returned it with an onslaught of his own. Eragon moved backward to escape the attack. Morzan growled as Brom twisted Zar’roc from Eragon’s hands with his own sword and flung it to the ground. Neither Eragon nor Brom paid attention to his agitation, but Saphira heard him. She lay some feet away. Her one eye had been trained on the fight. She fixated it on him for but a moment before returning her attention to her Rider and his teacher.

Morzan dug his fingers into the ground, clawing at the pebbles and dirt with his nails. Unsurprisingly, he felt some chip and others break. Brom and Eragon dueled once more, and though Brom won again, Morzan found satisfaction in every blow he took and sneered at the man’s limp afterward. He hoped the bruises Eragon delivered would last for days, longer if possible. Reluctantly, the two sheathed their swords— _Morzan’s_ sword—and prepared to turn in for the night. Eragon went to snuggle up next to Saphira again, and a moment later, she nestled him under her wing.

Brom neglected his blanket and took a seat near Morzan. Dark, heavy lines lay under his eyes, and he looked haggard. It seemed tonight, like all nights, he planned to wait to go to bed himself until after Morzan was asleep. And all the while, he would content himself with humming as he waited. Morzan didn’t know why he continued to bother, since Saphira, whom he suspected didn’t need nearly as much sleep as the rest of them, also stayed awake until Morzan fell unconscious. At least, he suspected as much. He had never actually seen her sleeping, though he imagined she had to eventually. And though Morzan sometimes woke before Brom, Saphira was always up before him in the morning.

That aside, Morzan had no plans to let Brom get his rest any time soon. He was younger, and on top of that, he didn’t support a number of bruises from a sparring lesson. So while inconvenient, he didn’t need sleep nearly as much as Brom did, and he was more than willing to deny himself that luxury if it meant wearing Brom down.

They sat in silence and the minutes dragged on. Brom scowled in annoyance as Morzan continued sitting, staring at the fire, but he didn’t stop humming. Morzan’s eyelids grew heavy, but he made no move to turn in for the night, as he knew the old man wanted him to.

“Lie down,” Brom finally grunted. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

And so they sat. After a moment, the humming started up again.

Then, “Why do you hate me so much?”

Brom stopped the tune, seemingly taken aback, but once again he hid his surprise behind a mask. “I’ve already told you. You’re a—”

“You said I’m a traitor and a thief.” Among all the other bad things Brom called him. “But what does that _mean_?” He met Brom’s gaze. “It’s obvious that you hate me for something I did to you personally, and not for what I’ve done to the Varden or anyone else. If we were— _are_ enemies, how did I betray you?” Unless they hadn’t started out that way.

Brom closed his eyes. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk about it once we reach Teirm.” Doubtful. “It doesn’t concern you for the moment. I have suspicions as to your… appearance, and would prefer to not say anything until they are either confirmed or disproven, which will also determine whether or not I let you live.”

 _That_ was comforting. Morzan snorted. As if Brom’s suspicions didn’t concern him; the man just admitted that he might kill him depending on what he discovered.

“Jeod is a scholar,” Brom continued. “Surely something he has will hold answers. Until then, we will not talk about it.”

Morzan snarled. “No, we’re talking about it now. I think I should be allowed to know what you’re basing your decision to kill me on is. And what does my appearance have to do with my betraying you?” Unless he had promised to stay dead, which he doubted, considering that he had had a sword shoved through his chest. He imagined speaking would have been rather difficult in that situation.

All kidding aside, that would also imply that Brom may have been present at his death, which very well could have happenedif Brom had told the truth about stealing Zar’roc from his body. Brom being the one to have killed him seemed a more probable outcome than the other scenarios he had considered, taking into account the man’s hatred of him and his ability with a sword, but Morzan didn’t want to admit that there was a chance he was sitting next to his own murderer.

“We will talk when we don’t have to worry about someone overhearing.” Brom gave a pointed look at Saphira’s wing where Eragon lay underneath, though whether asleep or not Morzan didn’t know, nor did he care.

“That’s a lie,” Morzan said. “Otherwise we could have spoken when he was flying with Saphira, or back in Daret, or when we left Daret. You just don’t _want_ to tell me anything.”

Brom stared at him. “There is some information that I do not believe would be wise for you to know, for your own good.”

“As if you have any interest in my welfare,” Morzan grunted. “You, the man who tried and still wants to kill me.” He turned back to the fire and watched the dying flames.

Brom took a deep breath. “This must all seem unfair to you, and I’m loathe to admit that it is, but your amnesia doesn’t excuse the things you’ve done, of which there are many. And many people have not forgotten your cruelty.”

“But how was I cruel?!” Morzan spun back to him. “You and Trevor are the same. You say you’re keeping valuable knowledge from me for my safety with no regard to how I feel about any of this. But at least Trevor likes me. You don’t care about me one way or the other, so what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Brom growled, “is that no one knows how you’ll react to the truth. Right now, you are all but harmless, whether you like it or not, and I intend to keep it that way. As far as I’m concerned, once you remember who you are, you’ll try killing _me_ and taking Eragon to Galbatorix. Maybe you’ll trytwisting his mind in order to convince him to join the king willingly.” Brom leaned dangerously close to Morzan’s face. “I cannot allow that to happen, so until we get to Teirm you’ll have to content yourself with not knowing.”

“So that’s it?” Morzan said. “I can’t know anything? Anything at all? Am I an orphan, or do I have a family? What’s my favorite food? Where did I grow up? I don’t know any of it! Nothing!” He was all but shouting now. “Do you have any idea how aggravating it is to have no identity whatsoever?! It’s like I don’t exist! Like part of me is missing.”

“Be quiet, or you’ll wake Eragon.”

“Of course, we can’t have that now, can we?” Morzan sneered. “I almost forgot that you like keeping secrets from him, too.”

Brom grabbed him by the front of his tunic and pulled him uncomfortably close. “Do not—”

Morzan’s fist cut off the rest of whatever Brom was going to say. In all honesty, he hadn’t planned to lash out at the man. If words weren’t going to accomplish getting answers, he highly doubted violence would. But whatever it was about being held like that, Morzan had the strong urge to get away, and he did it by swinging a fist, instead of pulling back.

Brom spat blood onto the ground. He didn’t even seem surprised at the punch, but his glare promised that he could give as well as he got.

Morzan just stared at him, his fist still raised and his multicolored eyes wide with disbelief that was quickly replaced with fear. He scooted back, but didn’t get very far before a hard slap sent him tumbling to the ground. His face landed only inches away from the fire, and he instantly twisted away from the scorching heat, reminded of his first day in Daret when he’d almost been burned alive.

Brom stood and towered over him. Morzan kicked out with his foot and landed a blow in Brom’s abdomen that made him stumble back. Morzan took the opportunity to quickly scramble to his feet. He bolted toward the tree lines, and somewhere over his shoulder, Saphira roared.

He may have been younger than Brom, but the man was fast, and he tackled him from behind. The two sprawled to the ground. Brom pinned him down and grasped at Morzan’s frantically flailing arms. The man situated himself on his stomach, and though it did little good in the position, Morzan tried bringing his legs up to continue kicking.

“Stop!” Eragon shouted.

Neither listened. Morzan was too intent on trying to get away. He clawed and punched at the other. Brom kept trying to still his arms, but after being struck enough times, he dropped all pretense of simply restraining the younger and started hitting back.

Morzan’s head swam after a particularly hard punch. Blood welled in his mouth and the pain temporarily halted his movements. That was all the time Brom needed to grab his arms and hold them still.

“What’s going on?” Eragon ran up to them, Saphira closely behind him. She snarled. Eragon spun around to her and shouted, “I disagree!” Then, he continued to Brom and Morzan.

Brom gave Morzan one last look before punching him again. In retaliation, Morzan spat into his face. The elder flinched back, but the bloody saliva dripping down his cheek and into his beard only angered him further—not that Morzan expected it to appease him, but like the first punch, he had no idea what possessed him to do it—and it earned him another slap.

“Enough!” Eragon grabbed Brom by the shoulders and hauled him off. Morzan sat up immediately, rolled over, and spat as much blood as possible onto the ground. He’d need water to wash the rest of the taste away, and chances were the ache in his head would last for quite a while.

“Go grab the rope.” Brom shrugged Eragon off.

Morzan froze, knowing better to run, especially now that Saphira stood over him, looking down with deep, blue eyes.

“No,” Eragon said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but no! You’re not tying him up again.” He turned to Saphira. “I don’t care if Morgan threw the first punch! That doesn’t explain why Brom kept hitting him!”

Brom rubbed his jaw, where a bruise had started forming. “Eragon, please—”

“Don’t start,” Eragon interrupted. “I don’t pretend to know what’s going on between the two of you, nor do I pretend to know what Morgan’s done, but we can’t keep doing this. We’ll never catch the Ra’zac if we’re fighting each other. I need you to teach me, Brom, and I need you to find where the Seithr Oil came from, but I won’t sit and watch you abuse him anymore. If you don’t stop this, Saphira and I will fly off on our own after Teirm.”

Morzan snorted atthe irony of what Eragon said. He was noble enough to stop Brom and him from fighting, but he was willing to leave and let them at each other’s throats so long as he didn’t have to see it. The fact that he was a Dragon Rider, a supposed protector of Alagaësia, made it all the more funny. He threw back his head to laugh, but was overcome by a coughing fit.

Brom nodded. “You’re right; I shouldn’t have acted like that. And I agree that we cannot continue like this.” Indeed, he looked apologetic, but Morzan suspected it had less to do with attacking him and was more about losing control over himself. “Once we reach Teirm, I will decide what to do with Morgan.” Eragon opened his mouth, but Brom silenced him with a raised hand. “Don’t worry, I promise to not kill him, but I cannot teach you with him around. There are people I know, who I plan to send a message to, to take care of him. Is this agreeable to you?”

Morzan bit back another laugh. To him, Brom promised death, but to Eragon he promised to let Morzan live. The man really couldn’t make up his mind about him. And though maybe _he_ wouldn’t kill him, Brom’s friends had made no such promise.

Apparently, Eragon shared his sentiments. “I don’t know who your contacts are, and I don’t trust them.” Saphira let out a rumble. “Saphira says she doesn’t either, but that your plan is agreeable for now.” There was a long pause, in which Saphira must have said something else. Eragon quickly relayed the message. “If your contacts prove untrustworthy, she’ll kill him.”

After that, Eragon looked back to Saphira and frowned, clearly disagreeing with her. Then, he turned on hisheel and walked promptly back to the camp. Saphira followed him, but as she lay next to him, Eragon chose another spot to sleep.

Morzan watched the fight. For once, he was grateful to Eragon, grateful for being the only companion who didn’t want to murder him, but by now, he had become all but numb to the threats.

He wiped his mouth of the remaining blood with the back of his hand, but made no move to stand.

Brom sighed. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

Brom worked his jaw. “I promise… to not hurt you if you calmly come back and go to sleep.”

Morzan gave him the most incredulous look he could muster. “You go first.”

Brom took a deep breath, then repeated his promise, but this time, he did it in the Ancient Language, which Morzan understood perfectly. He nodded, slowly got to his feet, and went back to the dying campfire, taking a wide breadth around Brom in the process.

Once back to his blanket, he lay down, facing away from everyone else. Brom stayed up as he so often did, but Morzan didn’t think he’d be able to sleep that night, not after what had just happened. A long moment passed, before Brom started that insufferable humming again. Morzan squeezed his eyes shut and willed the sound to go away, but it didn’t. Very slowly, the fast pace of his heart calmed down, and he gave into listening to the tune.

The rest of their journey to Teirm continued in the same fashion for the following days. Though, it lacked the physical violence, which Morzan thanked Eragon for. But it left them all stressed and ragged, and even as Teirm grew closer until they stood before its gates, nothing had improved.

Morzan almost found himself hoping that Brom’s contacts would come through, and then he could be free of the man. But that would leave him in the custody of someone else he neither knew nor trusted, and that was just as scary as not leaving the group.


	9. Dragon Rider

Morzan found his first encounter with Jeod to be interesting, though the awkwardness between them didn’t quite amount to what happened during his first encounter with Brom. Mostly because Jeod didn’t try to kill him. He simply stared in disbelief before promptly slamming the door shut. Following that was the sound of a lock.

“Friendly.” Morzan smirked at Brom.

Brom gave him a look before talking through the door to Jeod, trying to coax him into giving them entrance. Eragon, for the most part, seemed to have given up asking Brom why no one liked Morzan. He sighed, as Eragon was obviously still curious about it. Morzan could relate. Of course, not only would Brom’s friend be a scholar, he just also happened to know Morzan’s identity by looking at him. Morzan suspected that there would be several more conversations in the near future about him that neither he nor Eragon would be privy to.

He also suspected that Jeod probably had something to do with the Varden. And that he probably wanted to kill him too.

Maybe Jeod had been a part of his death. Though no one had said it outright, Morzan was pretty certain the Varden had something to do with it. They spent all those years trying to kill him. It’d be a little ironic and sad—sad in a way that Morzan didn’t empathize with— if someone else had beaten them to it.

Jeod slowly opened the door and peered out much the same way the woman had done earlier.

Morzan released the breath he had been holding. After all the trouble he and the others had gone through just to get inside Teirm, he didn’t fancy sleeping in the street, or at a shady inn. Tricking their way into the city had been no easy feat, considering that if he wore his hood over his facehe’d be too conspicuous and draw attention to himself, but the guards would surely notice his elven features without it. Thus, Brom had smeared dirt and mud over his face, and tousled his hair in a gesture that would have been friendly or fatherly from _anyone_ _else_ in order to hide his ears. Eragon had done most of the talking, as Brom wanted Morzan to attract as little attention as possible.

“Brom…?” Jeod spoke quietly.

Brom greeted the man, then promptly told him to not use their real names, and introduced his two companions, putting a minute amount of extra emphasis on Morgan than he did Evan.

Jeod didn’t say anything for a while. His eyes studied Morzan’s face, who smiled in return, watching the man shrink back. “Is that him?” Jeod said. “I thought you were both dead.” He turned to Brom, though obviously hesitant to let Morzan out of his sight. “What happened? Why haven’t you contacted me before?”

Brom glanced around and asked if there was somewhere they could talk privately. That was how they ended up at Jeod’s office inside the castle. Morzan never took his eyes off Jeod, which undoubtedly unnerved him. It was all too easy.

As Jeod set about making a fire, he tried engaging Brom in some lighthearted conversation, though his voice shook, and he kept glancing at the corner where Morzan stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He made sure a raised eyebrow accompanied his smirk whenever the man looked his way.

Eragon took up a spot next to him. He seemed to find amusement in what Morzan was doing, though judging by Brom’s expression, the older man wasn’t laughing.

At that moment, Jeod made a comment about Brom’s age and how he didn’t look any different than he had around twenty years ago. Morzan frowned. Though Eragon hadn’t caught on, that was a long amount of time, and maybe Morzan was reading into things too much, but Brom’s age struck him as important. Then again, Morzan probably only thought so because twenty years ago he had been older. He briefly entertained the idea that he had been hit with an odd spell that had made him age backward. Then, just as quickly, he dismissed it. That was almost as absurd as time travel.

As the talk between Jeod and Brom progressed, Brom also spared a few glances at him and Eragon, who had leaned forward, hungrily eating up all the words, no doubt hoping that Brom would say something that would help explain their current situation. Though he didn’t show it, Morzan was just as enraptured as Eragon was, and listened raptly as Brom spoke about the past decade and a half of his life. Unfortunately, every time Brom looked over, he would halt midsentence before saying something that meant nothing to his two charges, though Jeod seemed to understand perfectly and nod along.

“Why Carvahall?” Morzan said.

Jeod spun around. Until now, Morzan hadn’t spoken in front of the man, and his voice seemed to firmly cement in his mind that he was, indeed, alive. Brom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Because,” he started, “it’s secluded, and no one there would recognize me.”

“It’s also completely out of the way,” Morzan said. “The Va—I’m sorry, your _friends_ —would have a hard time contacting you.” He glanced at Eragon from the corner of his eye. “Unless, there was _some reason_ for you to choose there.”

Brom’s eyebrow twitched. “Eragon, why don’t you take—?”

“Eragon?” Jeod said. “That’s a unique name. Few have ever been named after—”

“Yes, it’s all very fascinating,” Brom commented dryly. “Eragon why don’t you take Morgan outside and check on the horses. I don’t think I tied Snowfire to the ring tightly enough.”

Eragon’s face darkened like a petulant child, and Morzan’s right along with him. He knew full well what Brom was doing. “Right,” Morzan agreed as cheerily as possible. “I think I should also check on Murtagh.” He had hoped the name would elicit a response of some kind, as well as annoy Brom, but he couldn’t be sure if Jeod would know whoever the mysterious Murtagh was as well.

“M-Murtagh?” Jeod sputtered. “He’s here too?”

“Oh, no,” Morzan shook his head, “ _she’s_ here too.” Utter confusion washed over the older man’s face. “C’mon, Eragon. Let’s go check on the horses.” He sauntered from the room, trying not to grin madly.

“So who’s Murtagh?” Eragon asked outside the door.

“I don’t know. Brom won’t tell me.”

Eragon growled under his breath, as they reached the horses. “He’s shutting us out,” he said. “I’m the Rider, and you’re… well, you’re whoever, but at the very least, I would think he could trust me!” Despite his frustration, he nevertheless checked that their mounts were firmly secured and in no danger of being otherwise.

“Ask Saphira,” Morzan said, once he was certain no one was in hearing range. The last thing any of them needed—or that Brom and Eragon needed—was someone overhearing them. It wouldn’t really bother Morzan too much, he supposed. The Empire wasn’t _his_ enemy.

“What do you mean?”

“Brom told her everything”—or so he assumed—“about me, his friends, and I assume about how he knows so much about magic and dragons.” And probably why he chose to hide in Carvahall. Maybe he had known somehow that Eragon would become a Rider.

Eragon frowned. “Saphira wouldn’t keep anything from me, especially if it was important.” But Morzan could already see the doubt building up in him, and the straining relationship between the two on the way to Teirm seemed all the more evident. “What’s happening involves me—us, I suppose. We should know what’s going on.”

“Do you trust him?” Morzan slowly ran his fingers along the fur of Murtagh’s neck.

Eragon blinked, brushing a hand through his hair and shifting his weight between his feet. “Of course I do. He’s—”

“Why?” Morzan interrupted, seizing the opportunity. He could only benefit into manipulating Eragon into trusting him more, which he couldn’t imagine would be that hard, seeing how Brom treated both of them. While some part of him knew that getting between the two was wrong, Brom’s actions toward the younger boy lessened the guilt considerably. “He’s obviously lying to you,” he said, “and he doesn’t return your trust. If he did, I would be out here alone.”

Eragon looked down at his feet. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, “he must have a reason for all this.”

“You’re the Rider, not him. I know why he doesn’t want to tell _me_ anything, but not you.” Morzan was slowly realizing that Brom also shared his sentiment that Eragon was both naïve and easily influenced. He saw the doubt raging behind Eragon’s eyes at that, and though he hoped it was for Brom and not his words; he didn’t want to risk pushing the boy any further. “What’d he tell you about me, anyway?” Safe— _safer_ —topic, at least, though it threatened to remind Eragon that Morzan wasn’t to be trusted regardless of Brom’s actions.

“Not much.” Eragon shrugged. “Just that you support the king and that you used to be a prominent figure in his army. And when I asked, he also said your father was an elf, and that’s why you look the way you do. Otherwise, he doesn’t know how you ended up in Daret, or why you aged backward.”

Well, the last part, Brom had been honest about at least. Not his elf parentage, though. Morzan highly suspected that the real reasoning behind his elven appearance was both connected to the mark on his hand and incredibly obvious. So obvious, he’d feel like an idiot for not realizing it sooner the moment he figured out what it was.

“What’d he tell you about you?” Eragon asked.

“The same, for the most part.” Morzan didn’t feel the need to elaborate, too lost in thought to care that his taciturnity had annoyed the other.

“What’d he tell you about me,” Eragon tried.

Morzan snapped his head up to look at him. “Nothing. I didn’t even know you were a Rider until Saphira tried to kill me. I only know what you’ve told me.” Which wasn’t much outside the Ra’zac, seeing as Eragon spent the majority of his life on a farm. The boy’s biggest secret was Saphira, and he already knew about her.

“I wish I knew what they were talking about,” Eragon said at last.

“You have magic, don’t you?” Morzan raised an eyebrow.

Realization dawned on Eragon’s face. He grinned and hurried to find a spot by to the wall and out of the general walkway. Morzan followed, intrigued, and took up a seat next to him. In a hurry, Eragon quickly explained the spell. Morzan listened intently to the words and repeated them himself after Eragon, causing the Rider to flinch at what must have been an overbearing and loud voice to his now magic-induced hearing.

Morzan’s already sensitive ears became that much more attuned to his surroundings as the spell took hold. Brom’s and Jeod’s voices sounded in the distance, but they were lost in the cluttered mess of everything else he could hear, which made focusing on them alone all the more difficult. Had he known other words in the Ancient Language, he would word a spell that targeted Jeod and Brom specifically, but he didn’t, and annoyingly enough, he noticed that Eragon did not outwardly seem as though he had nearly as much trouble with the other sounds.

As a bird chirped above them, Morzan found himself clutching his ears, while Eragon barely flinched.

He grimaced and pushed through the pain, and instead focused on finding Brom’s and Jeod’s voices again. Brom’s was easier for him to hone in on, due to being better acquainted with what he sounded like, compared to Jeod, whom he barely knew. At last, he was able to pick them out from all the chatter and animals around him.

“—theories?” Jeod asked.

“Not many, and the ones I do have are very implausible,” Brom replied.

Unfortunately, Morzan realized, he had come into this conversation part way, and all too late he realized that while Brom thought Eragon couldn’t hear them, he might mention who Morzan really was. It could possibly turn Eragon away from Morzan, but Morzan wanted whatever information he could get too. He’d deal with any fallout later.

“How has it been with him around? You’re both injured. Even under all that mud, I can see the bruises, on both of you.”

“It hasn’t been well, and I don’t like having him so close to Eragon.” Brom paused. “He has a way of influencing people.”

“I find myself uncomfortable simply _knowing_ he’s alive. You should have killed him. I thought you did.”

“I shoved Zar’roc through his heart. He _was_ dead”— _Damn it_! Morzan winced, hoping Brom wasn’t referring to him, but he knew he was, which meant Brom _had_ been the one to kill him. He wished it had been anyone else, but he wasn’t at all surprised by this revelation. A quick glance at Eragon showed that the boy was either worried at that last part, or unnerved by it—“I’d do so again, but Eragon won’t let me, and I gave my word to a man named Trevor—”

“Trevor?”

“A man from Daret…. But _him_ , he confuses me. I know who he is, and yet he is so different, not the person we used to flee from.”

“His age just raises more questions,” Jeod said. “There has been talk lately, rumors, of a large beast prowling the countryside. No one’s seen it, or at least no one alive. The charred remains of travelers and traders in the middle of burned fields are the only evidence.”

“I worried as much,” Brom said. “And he doesn’t even know what’s happening.”

A long pause followed that. “Well, enough of him, my friend. Tell me about Eragon. You said her name is Saphira?”

Eragon looked visibly upset at that, and Morzan couldn’t blame him.

“I wanted to put off taking him to Tronjheim until I could get him through tuatha du orothrim,” Brom said. “Can you imagine how everyone will react?”

“I imagine _Eragon_ and _Saphira_ will be met with a warm welcome,” Jeod replied. “Of course, following that would be the politics. I doubt he’s prepared for that. Hrothgar and Islanzandí would tear him in two.”

Brom gave a hollow laugh and asked about Jeod’s business.

Jeod’s response seemed rather bleak, as none of his shipments were getting through. Though he suspected the Empire knew he was helping these people in Tronjheim—probably the Varden, Morzan mused—he thought a third party might be involved, which would make the whole war between the Varden and the Empire that much more interesting.

A couple of guards walked by, their clinking armor as loud as someone clapping his hands right next to Morzan’s ear. He winced and almost missed what Jeod had said about a traitor. He strained to hear what was being said about it, and found himself a little worried in spite of himself, before remembering that he was loyal to the Empire and not to Brom and the Varden. He owed Brom nothing, least of all worry. But he also felt a little protective of Brom—no, that wasn’t right. He felt as though he wanted to hurt Brom and he didn’t want to share that right with anyone else.

A new question arose in his mind at that, and he wondered why he hadn’t just told a guard who Brom and Eragon were. And if Morzan used to be as prominent as everyone said, they would probably arrange to take him to the king, which didn’t seem like a bad idea. Brom had risked a lot just by bringing him to Teirm and putting him around other people, and he should use the opportunity to betray him. It wasn’t as though it would be hard, and he certainly had the inclination for it, considering the beating the man had given him, and the king would have all his answers, if not more. But somehow, he found himself incapable of acting on that urge.

“—send word to Ajihad,” Brom said. “It wouldn’t do much good to show up with a long dead enemy at his doorstep without telling him or the queen. I imagine they’ll both want to know.”

“What do you think will happen to him?”

“I don’t know,” Brom said. “I shouldn’t care, but a part of me does. He’s back to the way he was before…. Anyway, they’ll probably take him to Ellesméra, assuming they can keep his presence hidden from Hrothgar. I know someone there who wouldn’t mind seeing him again, and he’d be able to control him.”

“Safe and out of the way?” Jeod mused.

“Not entirely, but that’s the idea.”

“If Hrothgar discovers him and that you plan to hide him away and not kill him, it won’t bode well—”

“Hopefully Hrothgar will be too preoccupied with Eragon and Saphira to notice,” Brom said. “It’s an obstacle we’ll pass when we get there.” After that, there was some talk as to how the message would be sent. Then, “We’d better go join Eragon. I get worried when he’s by himself, let alone when he’s with Morzan.”

“Morzan!” Eragon sputtered, his voice crashing through Morzan’s skull. They quickly pulled themselves out of the spell, but Morzan’s head still ached.

“Did you have to shout in my ear?” Morzan sneered at him.

But Eragon just stared at him. “He called you Morzan.”

“Well, apparently that’s my name,” he growled. “Don’t tell me you know who I am too.”

Eragon shook his head. “You really don’t know?” When Morzan didn’t answer, Eragon took Morzan’s hand and, with shaking fingers, pulled his glove off to reveal the silver mark on his palm. Brom had looked at it too, back in Daret, to confirm who Morzan was. He supposed it was something unique to him, and from the look Eragon was giving it, it did mean something.

He pulled his hand back and shoved the glove back on. “I don’t know—”

Eragon looked somewhere between wonder and disgust at him. The silence was the worst part of it.

“Please stop staring at me like that.” The look didn’t change. “I might be Morzan, but I know nothing about who he— _I_ was or what I did, or what this means.” He pointed to his palm, all the while hoping Eragon would believe him. It wasn’t as though he’d lied to the other thus far, but maybe simply being Morzan would nullify any trust in Eragon’s mind.

Eragon took a moment to swallow, then pulled off his own glove, displaying a silver mark identical to Morzan’s. “It means,” he said, “that you’re a Dragon Rider.”


	10. Loathsome

It made no sense, and yet it did. The mark on his hand, his ears. Everything had meaning now. And it was as if without hearing those words he never would have known, when logic dictated that he should have, because the truth had been staring him right in the face. All those times he spoke of dragons and their Riders or dreamed of them, his knowledge of the Ancient Language.

_A Dragon Rider._

He knew the words to be true, but magic and pointed ears meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. In order to be a Dragon Rider, he needed one very important thing: a dragon. And he didn’t have one of those, which begged the question: if he truly was a Rider, where was his dragon?

A swarm of questions clouded his mind, and they left him staring at Eragon dumbfounded.

Eragon, for his part, remained just as motionless. His own thoughts looked to be racing behind his eyes. Morzan could only imagine what he was thinking. A Dragon Rider he might be, but that didn’t explain what terrible things he had done in the past, terrible things Eragon must know about. The disappoint he felt at most assuredly losing Eragon’s trust, however, failed to break its way through the anxiety he had over this current revelation.

Approaching footsteps snapped the two out of their trances. Eragon quickly pulled his glove back on, just as Brom and Jeod rounded the corner.

“Were the horses all right?” Brom said.

“I-I need to see Saphira,” Eragon blurted out, then took off down the street at a brisk pace.

Brom blinked as he left, making as if to go after him, before he stopped suddenly. His questioning gaze turned cold as he moved it back to Morzan. “What did you do?”

“I—” Great, now he was stammering too. The well of his emotions—his nervousness, anxiety, shock, and everything else he felt—prevented anything more than guttural sounds from the back of his throat. Morzan’s inability to speak must have looked like guilt, as Brom’s patience wore thin and he towered over him.

“I expect an answer.” For a second, Brom sounded just like Trevor, although disgust had replaced the fatherly disappointment Morzan had grown used to during his time in Daret.

“I—” he swallowed. “I’m going for a walk.” Finally stuttering his way through that proclamation, he bolted to his feet and charged in a random direction, fueled by the sole purpose of getting away.

“Morgan!” Brom called.

A hint of worry laced his voice, but Morzan didn’t stop. At the sound of shoes slapping against the ground toward him—presumably Brom chasing after him—he broke into a run. The streets were crowded enough to slow him down, but Morzan found a natural ease in slipping between people and down alleys with relatively no problems.

“Morgan!” Brom shouted again, sounding much farther away.

Morzan didn’t dare to turn around and kept going. After ducking behind another building, Brom was all but inaudible in the distance, and despite being relatively certain that the old man had lost him, he didn’t want to take the risk and continued on.

He rounded two more bends, switched to another street for good measure, and found himself in a completely unrecognizable area. Dread overwhelmed his relief at getting away, as he now had no idea where he was. His apparent lack of direction wouldn’t have been so bad had he not managed to get lost in what looked to be a less-than-savory part of the city. The buildings were decrepit and shadowy, with beggars lining the streets.

At this point, he no longer knew what direction would lead him back to Joed’s, but at the very least, he now had some time to himself to think without his murderer bearing down accusations on him.

Morzan strode down the street, searching for an out that didn’t involve backtracking the way he’d come, though he doubted he’d be able to do that even if he wanted to. He held his head high and walked with purpose, refusing to appear as lost as he felt. He went on like this for well over an hour before he noticed someone tailing him.

He hoped it wasn’t Brom, but there’d be no way to know without glancing back and seeing for himself. Whoever it was kept sliding in and out of the shadows behind him, and he had a sickening feeling that he’d been being followed for a while now. He didn’t know Brom well enough to say whether or not the man would just survey him quietly from a distance when he probably didn’t even know or care about what was bothering Morzan to begin with. And if his follower was Brom, he supposed he could be thankful for that courtesy if he wasn’t so angry at the man.

But he had a much easier time imagining Brom dragging him back to Jeod’s than he did imagining Brom following him around for the better part of an hour to let him seethe in peace, when he had much more pressing concerns, like Eragon.

No, that wouldn’t be the case, he concluded. Though he fancied the idea of neither Brom nor a potential mugger, murderer, or any other type of cutthroat trailing after him, he had a strong feeling his stalker was one of the latter.

Despite not having any sort of weapon or any conceivable way out at this point, Morzan found his tracker more annoying than anything else. He felt—no, he knew—that he’d been in situations like this before. Everything about the feel for the area, the rundown homes, the beggars, the thieves, seemed well acquainted with him. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know his way and had probably never been to Teirm before. The familiarity of it all gripped him

It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid. A small part of him realized that he was—or would have been, if he’d been younger. He was just _used_ to it.

Maybe it was due to his Dragon Rider training.

A sense of betrayal flared within him, and he felt no need to quell it. Instead, he let it burn.

Brom—and Trevor, for that matter—knew he had been a Rider. They had to have known. And though he had no respect for the man to begin with, Brom keeping this from him only caused the pain to grow. He could forgive Trevor, if only for all the other things the man had done for him and his willingness to keep him safe, but Brom had done nothing for him but keep secrets, not including the kidnapping and the beating. The bruise on his face ached with that line of thought.

Morzan had a life partner, like Eragon had Saphira. Maybe his dragon was as dead as he had been. That would certainly explain the emptiness he felt within himself. And maybe that’s why Trevor didn’t want to tell him the truth. But Brom wouldn’t care about sparing his feelings on the matter. Brom thought him dangerous, and he believed that telling Morzan anything would jar his memories, which was something the man wanted to avoid, but this struck him on a very personal level.

He wanted to make Brom pay.

Unfortunately, with Brom’s absence, Morzan couldn’t take his anger out on him. Of course, attacking Brom in a fit of rage would only result in another losing battle and more bruises, but the thought of beating the man did ease the fury somewhat.

He ducked down another alley, but it did nothing to deter his trailer, which suited Morzan just fine. If Brom wasn’t there to face his wrath, someone else damn well better be. In the privacy between two shabby buildings, he waited for whoever followed him to catch up, and the man didn’t disappoint.

Morzan calmly turned around. A sunken face and a yellowed grin greeted him. The man was ordinary, he supposed, and he held a long, jagged dagger awkwardly.

“Well, well, well, what do we—?”

“Jierda,” Morzan hissed.

Instantly, the man dropped his knife if favor of falling forward and clutching his knee. A loud shriek tore from his lips. He gazed up at Morzan, all the cockiness gone from his eyes, replaced by fear and confusion. He scrambled about on the ground, fumbling for the knife.

With another word, Morzan splintered the bones in his hand just before he found the object in question.

Already, Morzan could feel the pull of the magic and his energy draining. Breaking bones shouldn’t have been this exhausting, but Morzan hadn’t felt the need to simply fracture the man’s bones. No, he had put all his effort into _shattering_ them beyond repair.

He slowly took a step forward, just as a wave of dizziness hit. Steadying himself against the wall, he took another step, and another, until he towered over his victim. The satisfaction at seeing someone cower before him in fear and pain sent disturbing thrills through his body. He leaned down and picked up the knife, running a hand over the blade lovingly and knowing that his stalker watched every move with fearful eyes.

He twiddled the knife around in his hands, making sure that all the while the man never looked away. He didn’t know what he wanted to do now. He could kill him, and the world would be rid of another bad person, but he couldn’t bring himself to take the next step.

He supposed it was a weakness on his part. The shame at being unable to continue confounded him. He should go on and end the man. But for now, he was content just watching him quake in fear, bathing in the power he had over someone else, but it wouldn’t last. Eventually someone would walk in on them. He had to end it.

His hands shook as he leaned down, pointing the knife toward his follower’s throat.

He paused just as he pushed the tip into the man’s jugular. His victim was all but sobbing and begging for forgiveness—as he should be—but Brom’s words kept echoing in his head.

_You are a murderer, a liar and a coward, a thief and a desecrator._

A situation like this couldn’t have been what Brom had meant. The man before him deserved nothing less. _He_ was obviously bad, not Morzan. Brom had no right to judge Morzan. He had admitted to Jeod that he had been the one to murder him. Though Morzan didn’t know the details of what had happened, it could have been a similar situation. For all he knew, he had been on his knees before Brom, begging for mercy—though he doubted it.

But it was a possibility.

“Please,” the man said, at Morzan’s hesitation. “I have a child. She’s—”

“Shut up,” Morzan snapped.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a vindictive little voice urged him to continue. It didn’t matter the reasons behind what the man had been trying to do, because he still tried to do it. But Morzan realized that he hadn’t even given his stalker enough time to determine whether the man had planned to kill him, or just scare him into handing over some money, the latter of which Morzan had no problems imagining himself doing.

Odd. If he were a Rider, he wouldn’t need to scare people like that. His very presence would command enough respect for people to give him whatever he wanted.

Maybe Brom _had_ confused him for someone else and he wasn’t a Rider, after all. But that was a false thought. The mark on his hand said as much.

“She’s o-only a little girl,” the man begged again. “She’ll die without me.”

Morzan hardened his expression, willing the man to be quiet. He still deserved it, and the voice in his head wanted him to go on. But another voice—his conscience—told him to stop. He didn’t know what things he had done for Brom to hate him so, and murdering someone here would only strengthen the man’s resolve should he find out.

He gritted his teeth. This wasn’t about Brom, or what they had done to each other in the past. Morzan was certain that Brom wouldn’t grant him mercy, and Morzan doubted he’d be much more lenient in a reversed situation. This wasn’t even about the crook begging before him or whether or not he truly had a daughter to take care of.

This was about whether or not he was truly those things Brom had called him. And he wanted Brom to wrong, if only for the sake of his being wrong. If he let this man go, Brom wouldn’t be correct in his assumptions regarding Morzan’s character, or at least Morzan didn’t think he would be. Brom knew more about him than he did and maybe Morzan was a ruthless murderer. Granting one man his life wouldn’t change that. And though Brom would probably never even hear of this event, it would be a start. Then again, he wouldn’t want Brom to know about this, because sparing a potential killer might not be well received.

He supposed it was a little sadistic to let a criminal live to only prove a point to someone he hated, a point that the man would hopefully never find out about. However, that thought kept him distracted and in denial of the fact that he didn’t think he had it in him to take another person’s life. And it wouldn’t matter whether or not Brom knew about this, because Morzan would know.

“P-please,” the man cried.

Morzan’s resolve faltered. He couldn’t do this. Murder wasn’t in him. Maybe it had been before, or would be whenever he got older, however the hell his situation worked, but not right now. He was under no delusions that he was a _nice_ person, but he didn’t kill.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said, dropping the knife. He spared the man one last glance, to utter words of healing, then tore from the alley as fast as he could. The strain on his body from the magic was enough to make him stagger, and he felt no need to stick around long enough to see if he actually succeeded in healing his attacker.

Instead, he bolted out of that alley as fast as his tiring body would let him.

By a stroke of luck, after crossing a couple more streets and making a few turns, he found a more respectable part of the city by the time the sun started lowering against the horizon. He was still lost, but this was a start. He needed to find a guard, or someone of authority, a person who could point him in the right direction.

He needed to get back to Brom and just deal with whatever the man had to say about his running off before demanding his answers. But he hesitated at that thought. He didn’t require _Brom’s_ knowledge. If he was as well-known and feared as people told him, then someone else would have the answers.

He _should_ tell someone who Brom and Eragon were. They were enemies of the Empire, which he supported, after all. He _should_ turn himself in to be brought before the king. But when he finally found someone, all he could manage to say was, “Do you know where Jeod lives?”


	11. Restraint

The guard Morzan found took a long look at him, too long for comfort, and frowned. Morzan hadn’t realized until after asking for directions that his hood had fallen off and that his features were clearly visible, even in the waning sunlight and dirt smudged on his face. Given his time in Daret, he had grown used to people knowing what he looked like and not hiding from the villagers, but he hadn’t remembered that the people of Teirm weren’t accustomed to him until he noticed the guard’s eyes roving over his face.

Morzan could only hope that his elven features had disappeared enough in the absence of his dragon for the man to not say anything. Maybe they wouldn’t know who he was, but an elf was bound to raise a few eyebrows.

“Jeod, you say?” the guard mused, rubbing his chin.

 _Shit_! He also hadn’t realized how problematic all this could be until after asking for directions. He supposed Brom could add “idiot” to the long list reasons he had for hating him.

“Yes.” Morzan kept his face blank, cursing himself for not thinking this out better. He suspected that his conversation wouldn’t pan out too well for the merchant in the future, unless he did something to dissuade the guard from investigating him. “I was told of an herbalist who lives next to him,” he continued quickly. “She sells some very important items I need.” The quirky woman they had met earlier wouldn’t appreciate this, he knew, but he needed Brom, not her, and that meant keeping Jeod and the Varden safe… for the moment.

“You mean Angela?” the guard said slowly. “It’s a little late, don’t you think?”

“It’s very important,” Morzan said.

“And what would you need there?”

“Herbs.” Morzan refused to be intimidated by this man, consequences be damned. This encounter would come back to haunt him, he was sure at this point, but the guard was already suspicious. Morzan didn’t need to read his thoughts to know that much. He just prayed that the guard would drop the issue shortly and send him on his way for now.

The guard gave him another look, obviously displeased with the evasive answers. Eventually, he nodded and pointed him in the right direction.

“Where are you staying?” he asked, before Morzan could get very far. “I could escort you home.”

“Around,” Morzan said vaguely, then hurried down the street, using the same evasive maneuvers he had earlier when running from Brom. It wouldn’t matter much in the end, since the guard already knew his destination, but it made him feel a little better on the inside.

The sun completely set by the time Morzan stood outside Jeod’s house. He debated between knocking on the front door and sneaking in through the back. He quickly dismissed the latter, as he’d rather just deal with Brom instead of putting it off. Brom wouldn’t be anywhere near as lenient as Trevor, and Morzan suspected he could expect a bit more than being locked in a room for a day. At the moment, Brom might not even be inside. Maybe he was out looking for him and Eragon—or just Eragon. Maybe he’d found Eragon and they were searching for him together. Maybe—

A lock clicked and the front door banged open. Brom stood with an unreadable expression, staring at him. Morzan had grown accustomed to him angry, and he easily recognized the rage radiating off the other, but there was something else there too. And not knowing what it was left him more than a little apprehensive.

Without waiting for Brom to say anything, he quickly hurried up the steps and squeezed past the other. Brom shut and locked the door behind him.

Morzan held the man’s eyes, unsure what to say. He had the expression of a parent expectantly awaiting an explanation. It was the same feeling he had always felt around Trevor. But Trevor never made him fear for his safety. He glanced away. “Where’s Eragon?” he settled for saying.

“I suspect,” Brom drawled, “that he’s somewhere outside the city with Saphira, and that we won’t see him until tomorrow.”

“But you don’t know for sure?” At Brom’s irritated grunt, Morzan knew right away that that had been the wrong thing to say. “Oh, um… why not—?”

“They close the gates at night,” a voice behind him said.

Morzan spun around to find Jeod, who looked every bit as annoyed as Brom, though he still kept his distance. Morzan briefly imagined Brom dragging Jeod through the streets looking for him and Eragon. He snorted at the thought.

Jeod frowned. “He won’t be able to get back in until the morning.”

At that, Morzan was fairly certain of the resentment in the man’s voice, but movement brought his attention speeding back toward Brom, who had just positioned himself too close for comfort.

“Would you like to tell us where you were?” Brom said.

“Out,” Morzan shrugged.

Brom sighed and took him by the arm, pulling him toward a door down the hall. Morzan quickly dug his heels into the floor and attempted to wrench his arm away to no avail. Brom grunted and continued tugging him. Morzan wondered if he had just crossed some sort of line. Considering Brom, he wouldn’t doubt it, and thatbeating was still fresh in his mind.

“I’m not going to hurt you for running away.”

“My bruises say otherwise!” Morzan snapped back quickly. The bruises along his temple flared up in pain at his outburst. Nevertheless, he found himself complying with Brom’s pushiness, and it was only a second afterward that he realized Brom had spoken to him in the Ancient Language. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, as Brom pushed him into what looked to be a small guestroom. After all, even if Brom wouldn’t hurt him for running away, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t hurt him for other reasons.

He struggled against the trapped feeling that beset him as the door shut. He tried and failed to control the shaking of his hands and shoved them behind his back once he realized how uneasy he must look. Thankfully, he didn’t hear Brom turn the lock, which certainly helped to steel his nerves. This was the first time he and Brom had been alone together since their fight.

Brom, for his part, seemed to have calmed down considerably in their short jaunt to the room. His gaze softened for but a moment when he looked back at Morzan. Morzan bared his teeth and let out a low growl. He neither wanted nor needed this man’s pity.

Brom’s mask of indifference went up just as quickly as it had fallen. “What happened between you and Eragon earlier?” When he didn’t get an answer right away, he crossed both arms over his chest and scowled. “Well?”

Morzan glanced down at the floor. He didn’t know how to answer that without telling Brom that they had been eavesdropping. Brom would figure it out eventually, but at the moment, he wanted Eragon to say it to him; he had an inkling Brom would take it better coming from Eragon as opposed to someone he hated. Morzan was also certain that if he mentioned anything now he wouldn’t be able to contain the emotions running through him, because starting that conversation would undoubtedly lead to his dragon. And as much as he wanted to know about his partner, he was still coming to terms with everything he had learned today. Besides, considering how easily Brom danced around things he didn’t want to share, Morzan would need to be in a calmer state of mind before addressing the man.

“Morzan?”

Startled to hear the sound of his real name, he snapped his head up and stared at Brom. He found the concerned look on the other man’s face both unfamiliar and uncanny. It seemed alien coming from someone who tried to kill him only a couple weeks ago.

“Is everything all right?”

“Why would you think otherwise?” Morzan responded before he could help himself.

“Because you’re not running your mouth like usual,” Brom said.

Morzan glanced away again. His hands had stopped shaking, so he slowly removed them from their hiding place and let them dangle uselessly by his sides. No, everything was not all right. It hadn’t been for as long as he could remember. It had only gotten worse today, and he didn’t imagine it would improve in the foreseeable future. The almost-murder earlier just served to make the day already more unbearable than it was, and now, the driving force behind most of his woes had the audacity to ask if he was all right.

“Morzan?” Brom prompted again.

Another long pause followed. Then, “why do you care?” He hadn’t meant to sound so accusing, though he didn’t regret it either. Unfortunately, his tone had managed to sour Brom’s expression even more.

“I care,” Brom began evenly, “because whether you like it or not, I’m responsible for you at the moment, and I can’t protect Eragon… or _you_ ”—Morzan snorted—“if I don’t know what’s going on. Now, I’ll ask again: what happened?”

Morzan shifted on his feet. “I just needed a walk. That’s all.”

Brom rolled his eyes. “I’d almost forgotten what a terrible liar you used to be before growing up. You’re really trying my patience right now.”

Morzan bristled at that. It hadn’t been a lie, not exactly at least. At least getting lost and almost killing someone had calmed his nerves and settled his anger marginally. But whatever therapeutic effect that had had on him was disappearing in Brom’s presence, and quickly too. “Your patience is always tried,” he shot back. He cringed at Brom’s menacing look. “Eragon and I were just talking, and I must have said something to upset him.”

Brom sucked in a breath. “And what did you say?”

“I might have… _possibly_ … let my name slip.” It wasn’t too far from the truth. He doubted he was the only Morzan who ever existed, but the name did have significance to both Eragon and Brom, and Brom seemed to buy the explanation, though he didn’t look too happy about it. “I think he figured out who I am between that and all the secrecy.” Which meant that Eragon probably hated him too now. “He even asked to see my hand, like you did when we first met.”

That line of thought brought his attention back to his now-absent dragon and the empty feeling in his chest, and he immediately suppressed the desire to shout out accusations. He definitely wanted Eragon to be there when he confronted Brom about what they’d heard, and though he knew it would be wishful thinking, he could only hope that today hadn’t cost him his only ally.

“And then what?” Brom said.

“You came out and you looked really angry. I thought you were going to hit me again.” It still wasn’t a complete lie, and Brom seemed to accept that one too. Morzan didn’t like how weak he must appear right now, or how weak admitting to running away from fear made him look, but Brom did manage a good job at intimidating him.

Brom ran a hand over his face. The minutes passed by, and Morzan could only assume Brom was deep in thought, trying to process what he’d just learned and figure out a solution. Annoyance clearly laced his expression. “Is there anything else, while we’re talking about this?” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Um…” Morzan started, knowing Brom wouldn’t like what he was about to say at all. “There is something I need to tell you.” And he could only hope Brom wouldn’t punish him for it Nevertheless, he told him about the guard. “But I tried to convince him that I was going to Angela’s instead,” he hastily tacked on.

“You cause more problems in one day than Eragon could in his entire life.” Brom leveled a glare at him. Morzan tensed as Brom reached out and clasped a strong hand on his shoulder. Morzan automatically raised his hands in defense, ready to use the Ancient Language if need be. But Brom only propelled him toward the door. “I suppose we’ll have to deal with that as it comes, since we’ve yet to conclude our business in Teirm, and hope for the best. I very much doubt Eragon will let us leave until we discover where the Seithr Oil came from anyway.”

Morzan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Brom would have easily bested him, as Morzan had a lesser knowledge of the Ancient Language and no weapon. He knew Brom hadn’t liked relenting to teaching Eragon in his presence, but the man wouldn’t have been stupid enough to allow Morzan to hear anything Brom wouldn’t be able to defend against. It wouldn’t much matter that Morzan had a lot of power if he couldn’t use it properly and Brom could.

“Come,” Brom said, leading him into the hall, then down it into another room. “I’m sure there are some leftovers from dinner you can have, since you probably haven’t eaten all day either.”

“I would prefer something alcoholic,” Morzan muttered. Maybe if he got drunk, it’d take his mind off things.

“ _No_!” Brom shouted abruptly, tightening his grasp painfully on Morzan’s shoulder.

A sudden fear gripped himat the ferociousness of it, but a second later the hold loosened, as Brom very visibly tried to reign himself in. Morzan could only wonder what set the man off this time. Maybe Eragon’s threat to leave was the cause behind it, and Morzan could only relish in their newfound civility for however long it lasted.

“I mean, water would be better,” Brom said in a slower voice.

“Whatever.” Morzan shrugged and followed the man’s urgings into the kitchen. Dinner didn’t turn into as awkward an affair that night as he thought it would be.


	12. Truces

Morzan’s eyes lolled lazily, not truly reading what was in front of him. He hadn’t really slept last night, and when he had, it’d been fitfully. As such, he had finally crawled out of bed before the sun even rose, the earliest he’d ever gotten up as far as he could remember. Jeod had an impressive library, and it contained a lovely tome about himself and a bunch of people called the Forsworn.

Or he assumed as much. No sooner had he sat down than his eyes had drifted shut. It figured that he would start sleeping _now_ when he needed to be awake and not when he wanted to be otherwise. As such, he skimmed over the words without really seeing them.

The strain in his eyes only became worse in the dimming candlelight. It’d take little to no effort on his part to relight the wicks, but he was just so tired. The only thing keeping him awake for the moment was the desire to not be asleep near an open fire. It’d be his luck that the candle would fall over and he’d wake surrounded by flames again. That scenario had been a recurring nightmare for him. However, his fear of fire and waking up surrounded by it had been strangely absent during his journey, but there’d been more than enough incidents of him screaming in his sleep back in Daret. Trevor had eventually started to work more night shifts, if only so he wouldn’t have to hear it.

For the most part, Morzan had slept soundly on the journey to Teirm, and he was certain he hadn’t starting screaming the night away, as Brom would have probably just gagged him. He was grateful that he’d managed to avoid that humiliation in Brom’s presence at least.

That said, despite the shaky truce the two of them seemed to more or less share, Morzan doubted very much that Brom would want him reading about himself. Morzan having some semblance as to who he was wouldn’t please Brom in the slightest, especially since the man had gone out of his way to hide these things. And even though the man would eventually find out what he and Eragon now knew, Morzan still couldn’t see Brom approving of his reading material, at least not without a _lot_ of convincing.

As such, he tried focusing on the words, attempting to cram in as much information as possible before Brom woke up. When the candlelight finally went out completely, his eyes drifted shut again. When they next opened, sunlight streamed in through the dusty window, he had a headache, and Eragon stood by his seat, prodding his shoulder.

Morzan jerked back, finding the close proximity both startling and uncomfortable. He looked over at Eragon warily, unsure as to the boy’s motives.

Eragon stood up from his hunched position over Morzan’s curled form. The young Dragon Rider ran a hand through his hair and let out a shaky breath. “Good morning,” he said, as if he was greeting an old friend.

Morzan grunted in response. “You got locked out of the city last night, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Eragon chuckled nervously. “I ended up sleeping with Saphira.” He actually didn’t look as though he’d slept at all. Heavy bags lay under his brown eyes, and his appearance had a disheveled look about it. Morzan probably looked the same.

“Does Brom know you’re back yet?”

Eragon shook his head. “I… um… I wanted to talk to you first, actually.” He shrugged. “Saphira and I had an interesting conversation last night, and well, now that I know who you are…. Anyway, none of it really makes any sense.” He pulled up another chair and sat across from Morzan.

Morzan remained quiet, wondering how Eragon’s talk with Saphira had progressed. Obviously, she hadn’t managed to convince her Rider to kill him, or Eragon would have just done it instead of waking him up. He’d have to tread carefully if he wanted to keep the other’s trust now that he knew the truth, but he had no idea what Eragon thought of him at the moment.

However, Eragon also seemed to be waiting for Morzan to speak first, and thus a long, uncomfortable silence ensued.

Morzan shifted in his seat. “What did Saphira say?” he asked just as Eragon said, “What are you reading?” Another, awkward silence fell between them, but Eragon was the first to recover.

He gave a forced smile. “Just the usual. She still doesn’t trust you and thinks Brom should kill you.” He shrugged. “But she’s also happy that I stood up for you when I did, because she doesn’t want me to turn into a murderer, either. She seems very curious about how you returned, a little excited too.”

“Excited?”

“Yes,” Eragon said. “See, right now, there are almost no dragons, but if you came back, there’s a possibility more dragons can too. I mean, Jeod mentioned something that sounded like a wild dragon when he talked to Brom. Who knows, maybe it’s your dragon, so there’s a possibility. She wants to know how possible.”

Morzan bristled. Jeod had said something about travelers being attacked, but he couldn’t imagine it to be his dragon. After all, his dragon would probably be looking for him and not attacking the innocent, unless he lost his memories too—or was his dragon a she? He didn’t know. That had been the whole point of looking himself up. If he couldn’t even remember his life partner’s name or gender, he had no excuse being a Rider.

“You know, Eragon,” Morzan said, “something tells me that that’s not going to be anywhere near as simple as Saphira makes it out to be. I think I’m the only one.”

“You don’t know that,” Eragon responded. “You don’t remember anything. Or do you?”

“Not yet.” Morzan sighed, but if anyone else had come back to life, they probably would have appeared in Daret with him, or he assumed as much. Before picking up his current book, he had browsed through Jeod’s other titles and hadn’t seen anything that struck him as helpful in that regard. Maybe he himself had only appeared in Daret because he died there, but he immediately brushed that idea aside. If he truly had come back to life after being dead for more than a decade, his body should have been shriveled up and decayed, but he was perfectly fine. And it wasn’t as though he had dug himself out of a grave or anything like that.

Unfortunately, that line of thinking only made him wonder about his own grave and where Brom had left his body originally, or even if he had an original body that was still lying around somewhere. He was both curious and morbidly disturbed all at once.

“I, um,” Morzan licked his lips, “I didn’t want to speak to Brom until you got back.”

“Why not?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest,” he began, “the man kind of scares me.” And there went what dignity he had left. “And I figured he’d be less violent about the whole eavesdropping thing if you were with me.”

“I see,” Eragon said. “I wanted to confront him too. I don’t like that he told Jeod about Saphira without telling me first. You were right; he doesn’t trust me. And he’s told Saphira so many things that he won’t say to me. I don’t understand what all the secrets will accomplish.”

“Well, maybe we could ask him about that too,” Morzan said..

Eragon nodded. “I was planning on bringing up the issue after we leave Teirm.”

Morzan frowned. “I actually wanted to do it today.” When it came to Brom, he’d rather just have the situation over and done with. Patiently waiting for however long they were going to be there would be damn near impossible at this point, knowing everything he did now and wanting to know more.

“Well, I guess that’s fine,” Eragon took to rubbing his head again. He didn’t sound as though he liked that plan, but Morzan didn’t press the topic further.

“Where’s Brom now?”

“Still sleeping, I suppose.” Eragon glanced warily at the door, as if afraid someone would barge in on them. “So… you really don’t remember anything about being a Rider?”

Morzan shook his head. “That answer isn’t going to change anytime soon. And harassing me about it won’t make it, either.”

“I-I know that,” Eragon sputtered. “It’s just that, I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you. You’re the first Rider I’ve met, and you’re not exactly what I expected.”

Morzan twitched, unsure whether to take that as an insult or not. “Well, you’re not what I imagined the Riders to be like either.” A bit more bite crept into his voice than he’d intended.

“Sorry.” Eragon slunk back. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Whatever,” Morzan grumbled, turning back to his book. Eragon didn’t respond to that, but he continued sitting there expectantly, and Morzan wasn’t about to give in and say anything else about himself, even if he had anything else to say. After a few more minutes of being under Eragon’s inspection, he snapped, “What?”

Eragon blinked. “Sorry, I was just, um… looking at you.”

“I know,” Morzan said. “Why? I can’t honestly be that interesting.” He supposed this was Eragon’s curiosity getting the best of him again, but he was hardly in a forgiving mood.

“I think you’re interesting,” Eragon admitted. That admission didn’t really surprise Morzan, but what he said next did. “And I like being around you. As odd as that sounds. And as illogical. I don’t hate you.”

“You… what?”

Eragon grinned. “You’re so good at magic, I like having you around, regardless of who you are. If you’re this good, Galbatorix must be even better. Someday, I want to be just as powerful as he is. What if he comes looking for me? I’d need to be able to defend myself.”

Morzan sat up straighter. “You’re using me as an adversary you need to overcome?”

“If you want to think of it like that,” Eragon said. “I’m just waiting for the day Brom lets us spar. I mean, a fellow Rider. You must be a challenge, and I look forward to the day I’d be able to hold my own against you.”

Despite himself, Morzan’s lips curved into a smile. “Even though you should hate me?”

Eragon slowly lost his grin. “I think I hate who you were, but you don’t seem like the person Brom keeps insisting you are, and you’ve yet to attack anyone—well, you’ve yet to attack _me_ , at least.”

A wave of relief washed over Morzan. Maybe Eragon hadn’t admitted to thinking him the most wonderful person in existence, but Morzan would take what he could get at this point. Besides, being the boy’s rival seemed far better an idea than being his hated enemy. And as much as he enjoyed the praise—which he did, immensely—he couldn’t help but feel as though Eragon reminded him of someone.

Another ache filled his chest, as though he missed something dearly, but he couldn’t begin to even fathom what that might be.

“So you never answered my question,” Eragon said.

“Which one?” Honestly, the boy could go on and on forever. He was a bottomless pit of endless inquires, but thankfully Morzan hadn’t been bombarded by too many this conversation. Thus far.

“What are you reading?”

Morzan looked down at the book again. “It’s about me and some guys called the Forsworn. I don’t really know who they are yet, but I think we’re allies. I wanted to research myself before talking to Brom. But every time I try reading, I just keep falling asleep.”

Eragon nodded, and then explained to him who the Forsworn were and Morzan’s connection to them, without going into much detail. Just that he and the others had helped Galbatorix overthrow the old order of Dragon Riders and took over the country. None of it made much sense, and it didn’t tell him anything that the book hadn’t managed to get through to him. “But Brom didn’t really go into the specifics,” Eragon said. “He was Carvahall’s storyteller, and he’s only mentioned the Forsworn a couple times. All of you supposedly died, but here you are, so I don’t know how accurate that might be.”

Morzan slowly nodded. The whys and the hows of the situation still eluded him, and it seemed as if Eragon wouldn’t know the answers either, but at least they had managed to retain civility in their conversation.

At least Eragon didn’t completely hate him.

The frustrating lack of knowledge he could only put up with for so long before something would snap, but engaging in this conversation was all Morzan could do to keep his eyes open. The exhaustion wrought on from running away, almost committing murder, and then barely sleeping last night didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon.

He wanted so badly to continue this conversation with Eragon, but he was just _so_ tired.

“Here,” he said, shoving the book at Eragon. Maybe it could sate the other’s curiosity long enough for Morzan to close his eyes. Of course, despite how tired he felt, managing sleep when he both wanted and needed it wasn’t something he was very good at. But considering that he and Eragon seemed to have some semblance of honesty, he could probably just ask Eragon about what he read later today. Brom would be waking up soon anyway, and Morzan would need _some_ rest before that conversation.

“Um…” Eragon hesitated, looking at the volume.

“What? Aren’t you curious?” Morzan knew he had to be. Asking whether or not Eragon was curious was like asking whether or not the sky was blue.

“I am,” Eragon said. But he made no move to open the book.

Morzan frowned. “You can’t read, can you?”

Eragon shook his head. “There was never anyone to teach me. Besides, I never needed to learn.”

Morzan stared at him. He didn’t know which was more shocking: the fact that he was sitting across from a Dragon Rider who couldn’t read, or the fact that said Dragon Rider wouldn’t have learned to under Brom’s tutelage. Or maybe Brom hadn’t noticed yet. It wasn’t as though they carried books with them on their travels.

He didn’t know how it had happened, or even why he let it, but less than five minutes later he and Eragon were both squeezed uncomfortably into his chair, with Eragon sitting half on the armrest while his hip dug painfully into Morzan’s side. Later, he would probably tell himself that he was doing this out of pity, as he certainly wasn’t going to get any sleep done if he was reading a history book out loud for Eragon’s benefit.

He trailed his index finger along the page as he read, just so the other would know where they were. Most of it was pretty boring, dealing with the politics of the old Order, but Eragon remained where he sat, intent on listening and only opening his mouth every once in a while to ask a question about letters and spelling. Morzan hated to admit it, but he was a quick learner.

“I don’t think you pronounced it like that previously,” he blurted out halfway down the one page.

“Because I didn’t,” Morzan said. “When a T’s not followed by an H, it makes a different sound.”

“Why?”

“Because it just does.”

“This is so confusing. I can’t believe Jeod does this all the time.” Despite his complaints, Eragon did seem to be enjoying the experience.

But it wasn’t doing much to further Morzan’s knowledge of the Forsworn, since he ended up more invested in teaching than learning. He got so caught up in it, that it wasn’t until Brom was standing right in front of their chair that he noticed the man’s presence. Brom surprisingly didn’t look angry—annoyed, yes—but any displeasure he may have had quickly disappeared behind his amusement.

“Morning,” Eragon said.

Morzan shrugged, but offered no other greeting. He tried slinking lower into the seat, but Eragon’s hip prevented him from moving too much.

“Eragon,” Brom nodded. “I was wondering when you’d make it back. I had planned to greet you, but it appears as though I slept in, unlike someone else we know.” It was all Morzan could do to not hit him. Again. Brom looked well rested for once, and Morzan felt terrible. The knowing smirk on the man’s face said that Brom knew exactly how tired Morzan was. “Sleep well?”

Morzan growled, but Brom didn’t seem to notice. Regardless, his tone was more cheerful and playful than it was mocking, though the man surely had to take some pleasure from his discomfort. But even after whatever truce they had come to last night, Morzan didn’t want to deal with it.

And the cheeriness didn’t last very long. It only took a moment before Brom finally seemed to realize just how close he and Eragon were sitting, and the immediate frown told Morzan that Brom more than disapproved. It wasn’t that they were next to each other, as Brom would have seen that the moment he walked into the room; it was probably more that they were practically sitting on top of each other in order to fit into the seat, with Eragon’s arm looped around Morzan’s shoulder to keep his balance.

Brom’s expression soured even further as his eyes traveled to the book between them.

Morzan wanted to disappear, but Eragon was with him and now was as good a time as any, but before he could say anything, Eragon blurted out, “You told Jeod about Saphira.”

Brom blinked in surprise, and then leveled an all-too-familiar glare on Morzan. Morzan couldn’t deny that he felt some guilt at that, as it _was_ his idea for him and Eragon to snoop, but he couldn’t feel too bad, since Eragon’s curiosity would probably have led him to do it regardless.

“I take it both of you eavesdropped?” Brom said, his gaze never leaving Morzan.

“You don’t trust me,” Eragon replied. “I don’t know Jeod, or whether or not I could trust him with Saphira.” Following that, he launched into a few things that had been bothering Morzan as well, such as Brom knowing about dragonlore, or why he hid in Carvahall, and Brom didn’t look too keen to answer any of it. And Morzan couldn’t tell if he was thankful or not that Eragon left him out of his ramblings.

A long stillness drew out between them the moment Eragon was done. Morzan could just imagine Brom’s thoughts racing behind his steel eyes, wondering how to respond while the supposed traitor sat in the same room.

Morzan swallowed. “But don’t worry; I still don’t have any of my memories.” Just because he knew Brom had to be concerned about that. Morzan tilted the book up and hid behind it, preferring to imagine Brom’s angry expression over witnessing it. Still, he could feel the scrutiny being inflicted upon him.

No one said anything for a while. After a moment, a chair scraped against the floor, and when he looked back up, Brom sat right in front of him.

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me who Morzan really is,” Eragon said.

“And if you have any good sense, you’ll not use his name,” Brom snapped. Morzan slowly lowered the book a bit more, gazing out over it. Unexpectedly, Brom didn’t look angry; he looked resigned. “I suppose I have some explaining to do.”


	13. The Search

Nothing ever seemed to go as Morzan hoped it would. Of course, it had to be just as Brom had walked in, willing to share his secrets, that the morning had gone askew.

He was both annoyed by and oddly worried for the people of Teirm that the guards had waited until morning to come knocking on doors. Elves couldn’t be that common, and from what he’d gathered, they weren’t fans of the Empire, so it didn’t reflect too well on the chain of command that they were still searching for him _hours_ after the fact. Or maybe the higher ups had felt that potentially harmful threats, like elves, weren’t worth waking up for in the middle of the night to bark out orders.

Or it was entirely possible that it had simply taken the one guard this long to convince anyone that he had even seen an elf.

And he _wasn’t_ even an elf—but like everyone else, he supposed he’d have to forgive them for the assumption.

But still, he _wasn’t_ an elf.

Of course, this was all speculation, as Morzan knew nothing about the city, nor how it was run. But he would have expected someone to have checked earlier. If only for protocol. If he had been completely insane, he probably would have tracked down the person in charge of his search to tell him how to properly conduct it.

Maybe that was the army general in him coming out.

Regardless, the insult of their incompetence stung.

Unfortunately, his lack of sleep seemed to have finally caught up with him, and it was all he could do to remain awake while he lay on the floor in one of the upstairs rooms, directly over the entryway, with his ear pressed firmly against the wood.

He was tired, and the cool surface beneath him helped to ease the tension out of his sore limbs. But it was still by no means comfortable. Brom had ushered him up here and out of the way, while he and Jeod convinced the guards to not search the house. Eragon, naturally, he had allowed downstairs.

Morzan _was not_ jealous.

Not entirely.

He couldn’t be. It was logical after all, since he was the one they were looking for. But like Trevor, Brom had scurried him away and out of sight. Hiding had gotten old fast back in Daret, and after being on the road for over a week with little to no human interaction outside his companions, that sentiment had not changed.

He still shouldn’t have to hide from these people at all, because Galbatorix wasn’t _his_ enemy. If he just revealed himself, he could be done with Brom for good, and Eragon’s annoying, insipid, nagging, constant questions.

But he didn’t. He stayed silent and listened.

Despite their shaky start, he and Brom were finally— _potentially_ —getting along, and after that conversation with Eragon, he didn’t want to ruin his newfound trust. He doubted it would be easy for someone like him to come by, and the fact that he had even managed it at all gave him a strong sense of achievement. He wanted that feeling to last as long as possible, so in the meantime, the king would have to wait.

In the meantime, he had resorted to using magic for eavesdropping again.

“—no one else?” The voice was gruff.

“I haven’t seen anyone,” Jeod said. “It’s just my wife and I, the servant, and my guests here.”

“The guards at the gate said there was another one of you. They said he was cloaked too. I say that sounds a little suspicious.”

Morzan groaned. With his luck, of course the guards would remember that among the hundreds of people who had to pass through there every day.

“I assure you,” Brom said, “there was no one else.” Morzan knew he wouldn’t hear the end of this. Brom would be sure to hold a grudge about something like this for at least the next few days. “They must have been mistaken.”

“Well then,” another voice said. Morzan recognized it as belonging to the guard who’d started this whole mess. He took satisfaction that the man probably hadn’t slept either. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind us looking around?”

“I thought you said this mystery man was looking for Angela,” Jeod replied. “What’s he got to do with me?”

The guard from last night—whom Morzan chose to nickname Snitch—chuckled. “He mentioned you by name.”

“Did he?” Morzan flinched as the accusation in Jeod’s voice sliced into him. Yes, Brom definitely wouldn’t let him hear the end of this. First a traitor, now an idiot.

“If he was looking for Angela,” Eragon said, “why don’t you check her shop?”

A long tense silence followed that. “Don’t tell us how to do our jobs,” Snitch snapped. “We did check, and she was none too happy about it. She also said no one came by. I suggest you keep the boy quiet, or we’ll do it for you.”

“I do apologize,” Brom said, his voice dripping forced sincerity.

“She may have been lying,” Jeod added. “Or she may have forgotten. She’s a rather… peculiar person.”

“We’ve considered it,” the first guard—Grady, Morzan decided, if only because his voice grated—interjected. “For obvious reasons, we’re less inclined to believe you. Now where is the other person you were travelling with?”

 _Damn_. Morzan grimaced. They were certainly persistent. But at least they were doing their job.

“We don’t know who you’re talking about,” Brom said.

“Then you _won’t_ mind if we look around.”

Morzan doubted that any of them had a choice at this point. The whole situation was suspicious. Three of them had arrived, and now the one disappeared just as soon as an elf—which he _wasn’t_ —showed up.

“Of course not,” Jeod grounded out. Boots stomped into the house, sounding like a lot more than just two people. Maybe they were competent, if they remembered to bring a whole search party with them.

Morzan tensed. He needed to get up, hide somewhere they wouldn’t find him, and admire their not-entirely-absent skills from a safe distance. But the guards might hear him through the floorboards, and that would call attention to his location immediately. Everyone else in the house was already in the entry, including Helen and the servant, so the noise couldn’t be blamed on them.

Regardless, he was still in the middle of the floor of a completely bare room, with nothing blocking him from sight. A loud crash echoed as something fell over, while the sounds of boots moved steadily through the house. On second thought, if they planned to search by destroying everything in their path, noise wouldn’t be much of a problem. The problem would be finding somewhere to hide that wouldn’t get decimated in the search.

He let go of the spell that had heightened his hearing just as he heard someone knock something big over. Whatever it was, the sound of breaking glass accompanied it.

Morzan’s mind prickled. Something poked at it, trying to get in. Immediately, he imagined a wall around his thoughts, but the feeling didn’t go away. If anything, it got more persistent, even desperate, and it didn’t take long before Morzan realized that the presence was Brom. He hesitated to lower his shields, not comfortable with letting the man into his thoughts. They may have been getting along, but they weren’t _that_ close.

The footsteps were growing louder. Closer to his position, and he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Brom’s hammering at his walls became more urgent. But he couldn’t lower them, not to him. This was the man that had beaten him. Morzan could only imagine how furious this situation must make him, and it was possible that Brom only wanted in to do some more damage in retribution for this inconvenience.

Maybe Brom only needed to tell him something valuable that might help—the soldiers, guards, or whoever they were had reached the stairs—but maybe he didn’t. But if he did, and Morzan misguidedly let him in, he might inadvertently lead Brom to his thoughts on the man in the alley, and Morzan didn’t want him to know about that.

 _He_ didn’t want to know about that, and he had been the one to do it.

Brom didn’t stop trying, but the pressure became less forceful and more soothing, trying to coax its way in, instead of pounding insistently. Whatever had caused the change in his tactic, Morzan could only guess, until he realized that he had been leaking fear back through whatever link Brom was trying to establish.

They were right outside the door in the hallway now.

Morzan squeezed his eyes shut. The guards wouldn’t hurt him, he told himself. He had nothing to lose if they found him. He had everything to gain, but Brom and Eragon would suffer for it. And he liked them— _he liked Eragon_ —and Brom had finally been about to tell him what he’d wanted to know.

He tried to justify this reaction to himself, to figure out why he needed Brom when Galbatorix possibly had his answers too. He had no real reason to stay loyal to them. Brom had practically kidnapped him from Daret by blackmailing Trevor. Brom had tied him up. Brom had beaten him. Accused him of heinous crimes. Belittled his horse’s name—which he took great offense to. Murtagh was a _great_ name.

But in the end, he simply _wanted_ to stay with Brom and Eragon.

He liked having a possible friend, which he couldn’t remember having before. Maybe Galbatorix had been his friend at one point, but Galbatorix wasn’t there. It was Eragon downstairs. And the thought of losing that friendship sent a pang of guilt sweeping through him.

Despite everything warning against it, Morzan slowly lowered his shields.

Brom’s thoughts connected with his, but the man didn’t start plunging deeper as he’d expected. Instead he started repeating a phrase to him in the Ancient Language over and over again. Morzan’s shock quickly faded as he recognized the words.

The door handle started turning.

Morzan repeated them out loud as fast as he could.

A guard walked in and stared at the spot where Morzan lay.

His breath hitched. For a moment, he feared that the spell hadn’t worked, but the guard took one last look around the bare room, then left, slamming the door behind him. “This room’s empty.”

Morzan released a sigh. One quick look at his hands—or where his hands should have been—confirmed that the spell had worked, and he was invisible. Unfortunately, the drain of casting it, combined with his previous exhaustion, did nothing to help keep his eyes open. He felt the spell falter with his concentration, and then it was completely gone. Now, when he needed to be awake, he could feel sleep coming on. He could only hope that no one else decided to check this room.


	14. No One

The familiar crick in his back from sleeping on something hard greeted him as he awoke. His limbs felt stiff and sore, and the obnoxious light streaming in through the window did nothing to lessen his headache. He sat up straight with a jolt, but a wave of dizziness sent him crashing right back down. Too often he managed to fall asleep in the most terrible of positions. He willed himself to move, to at least stagger down the hallway toward his bed, but his body didn’t care to listen.

“If you had gone to sleep last night,” said a pounding voice to his right, “instead of staying up reading, that spell wouldn’t have knocked you out.”

Morzan threw his arms over his head, attempting to block out the light. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Brom?”

“It gives me a certain satisfaction.”

He could all but imagine the man’s grin on his insipid, wrinkled face. Had Morzan’s head not hurt so much, he might have even mustered enough effort to feel offended. But the exhaustion, the pain, and the unease at being alone in the other’s presence, and in such a weakened state no less, were too overwhelming. Morzan didn’t think he could handle much more.

“What happened?” he finally rasped out.

“The city watch came,” Brom said. “Looking for an elf matching your description.”

Why did _everyone_ have to call him an elf? “I meant afterward, when I was—”

“Unconscious?”

Morzan turned to glare at the other. He found Brom sitting in a chair by the door, with the book he and Eragon had been reading from earlier resting in his lap. “Yes, _exactly_ ,” he spat.

Brom raised an eyebrow. “You always were cranky after sleeping poorly.”

Morzan rolled over onto his stomach. Then, on shaky arms, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Brom watched his struggle silently, expressionlessly. Once Morzan felt secure in his new position, he snarled, “you’re an ass, you know that? All you have to do is _answer_ the question.”

“Indeed,” Brom said. “But first, we need to talk.”

“We’ve needed to talk since we met.”

“About Eragon,” Brom continued. He tossed the book down in front of Morzan. It slammed against the floor, sending up a puff of dust and causing another sharp sting to shoot through Morzan’s skull. Against his will, he found himself flinching away. “So long as you’re with us,” Brom went on, “I can’t stop you two from interacting with each other, but I will not have you conspiring against me with him as your unwitting ally.”

“What can I say?” Morzan shrugged. “You’re easy to conspire against.”

“This situation can still get worse for you,” Brom said, unrelenting.

“Eragon already knows who I am,” Morzan snapped. “He probably knows more about me than I do. I might be a murderer, traitor, and all those other insults you throw my way, but at least I’m not a self-righteous, paranoid old man who keeps secrets _to no purpose_.” Secrets that weren’t even Brom’s. If Morzan was entitled to anything, it was to his own history. “You have no one to blame but yourself. Eragon _trusts_ me. At least I don’t _lie_ to him.”

Brom’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at him for a good long moment. Then, “The conspiring ends today.”

“Or what?!” Morzan gave him the most spiteful sneer he could muster. Given his current condition, he probably didn’t look anywhere near as vicious as he’d hoped, but it would have to do. “What can you _possibly_ do to me?” he asked. “How can you make my situation _any_ worse than it already is? I have nothing but my name, and that’s worth _shit_ for all the good it’s done me.”

Brom frowned, and for a second, he looked almost angry, but he did nothing to stop Morzan’s tangent. Nor did he move as Morzan struggled to his feet.

“I’m nothing right now,” Morzan all but shouted in the other’s face. “I don’t have my memories, I don’t have my dragon. I don’t even remember where I was born, or what my parents look like. Or even if I _have_ parents. All I had was Daret. And Trevor, and Dilwen, and Dal, and all the others. They were the closest I had to a family and _you took me away from them_!” His legs nearly collapsed from underneath him, and he had to lean against the wall for support.

Brom still said nothing. Morzan could only wonder at what could possibly be going on through his head. More secrets perhaps. The man was nothing if not filled with secrets. Secrets he had _no right_ to keep.

And now, he also had the audacity to tell Morzan—to _accuse_ him of a conspiracy, when all he and Eragon had done together was _read_. Maybe it had been Morzan’s idea to eavesdrop on Brom’s conversation with Jeod, and he had attempted to exploit Eragon’s distrust in the man, but that was _beside_ the point.

Eragon was the only person around Morzan could even remotely sympathize with, and he’d be damned if Brom was going to take that away from him too.

“When I left with you,” Morzan continued, “I thought… I thought that you would have all my answers, but you don’t _tell_ me anything. You call me a horrible person, but you won’t tell me _why_. It’s not because I joined Galbatorix and betrayed the order. I know it’s not that, because it’s something I did to you personally. I can see it in the way to talk to me, _about_ me. Why won’t you just tell me what I did?!” His face was wet, but he couldn’t stop now. He didn’t think he could stop even if he wanted to.

His head was pounding, and the light was still too bright. He could hardly keep himself on his own two feet—and his head still wouldn’t stop that _insufferable pounding_.

And all the while, Brom said nothing.

“You came to Daret, and you took me away. You stole me from what life I had, and you gave me nothing back.” His voice broke. “I don’t even know myself. I’m not a person if I can’t be me. How can I be if I don’t have an identity? I know that I can’t sleep at night because I have nightmares. I know that you hate me. That Trevor idolizes me. But worst of all, I think I hate myself, and I don’t even know _why_ I feel this way.” His self-hatred only intensified after remembering the man he’d almost murdered back in the alley; he couldn’t get his pleading face out of his thoughts.

He slid down the wall until his was sitting again, with his knees pressed up against his chest. It was a wonder that Brom could even understand a broken word he said.

But his head, the pain just wouldn’t go away. It kept pulsing, and it was all Morzan could do to not vomit. He was exhausted, and the situation just kept worsening no matter what he did. First the Ra’zac had been looking for him. Then, Brom had found him. Now, on top of everything else, the arguments, the resentment, the almost-murder, Brom was trying to take something else from him.

His chest constricted, his arms shook, and slowly his fingers and toes started tingling. His face felt cold, and he could hardly breathe.

“Then you just sit there and you don’t do anything!” he managed to gasp out. “ _Say_ something!”

But Brom didn’t. Morzan’s outburst didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest.

“Well?” Morzan prompted. “What are you waiting for? Call me some generic insult that means nothing to me.”

More silence.

“Hit me,” Morzan tried. “You had not trouble doing it before.”

Still nothing. The man was as still as a statue and Morzan was spent. He gave himself over to wracking sobs, completely helpless to stop himself. Every negative emotion he had came bubbling up to the surface, and more than ever, he wanted to go running to Trevor or Dilwen or anyone else from Daret. He’d even take Aled. But Daret was leagues away, and at this point Morzan would do anything to be back there and out of Brom’s sight. At least in Daret, he had people who cared about him. At least he had never almost murdered someone there.

When it came to Brom, nothing he did made a difference. The man wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t relent on any issue. It probably didn’t matter that Morzan could have turned both Brom and Eragon over to the guard he’d encountered, that he could have ended their quest to find the Ra’zac the minute they entered Teirm. That he could be on his way to Galbatorix right now. Morzan couldn’t even begin to fathom what he must have done for Brom to see him as such as monster.

“Are you _quite_ done?” Brom broke through his thoughts.

“I hate you,” Morzan choked out. “I hate you _so_ much.”

Nothing more was said after that. Brom just continued to watch him sob and exhaust himself even more. And his headache just kept pounding behind his eyes, so strong that the room seemed to spin. He went on this way for minutes—hours, maybe. He couldn’t tell. His sense of time had all but diminished by the time he finally started to calm down. The sun, however, had hardly changed its position outside the window, so he supposed it hadn’t been that long.

Pathetic. He was pathetic, to have lost so much control over himself, to have displayed such weakness in front of somebody like Brom. He was a weak, powerless, and at the other’s mercy. He was _pathetic_. Brom could do whatever he wanted to him, and Morzan would be helpless to stop him. Brom could hurt him— _kill_ him even. Morzan knew he wanted to, yet the man still did nothing.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity. Brom stood up and came to kneel down in front of him. He grabbed Morzan’s chin and forced him to look him in the eye. It wasn’t a bruising grip, but it was still strong enough that Morzan couldn’t turn away.

“Your name,” Brom said slowly, deliberately, “is the most important part of your identity, the most intrinsic.”

His voice was harsh, but his eyes were shining, as though he was holding back his own tears. That couldn’t be the reason, though. Because what reason would Brom have to cry?

“Someday, Morzan, you will understand that, and when you do, you will understand true agony. But until you do know the truth, if I _ever_ again hear you say one more time that your name means nothing, I _will_ hit you.”

Then he got up and left the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving Morzan alone to his thoughts.

The sun had set by the time Morzan wandered from the room, still mulling Brom’s words over and over again in his head. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what the man had meant, or how his name could be _that_ important. It certainly wasn’t important enough for Brom or Trevor to stop calling him “Morgan” in public. This just had to be one more secret that Brom was unwilling to share, and Morzan couldn’t tell if Brom actually thought he was protecting him from something. Much more likely, Brom was going to savor whatever internal pain he thought knowing the truth would inevitably cause Morzan.

 _You will understand true agony_.

He repeated those words over and over again, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about them. On top of that, he was hungry and still so tired. Too hungry to go to sleep, but too embarrassed over his tantrum and upset to risk running into Brom on his way to the kitchen. Not sure where to go, he stood in the hall, clutching the book Brom had left back in the room with shaky hands. His headache had dulled down, but it was still a constant throb threatening to come back full force.

He still didn’t know what had happened after the guards had left. And to think, that if he had just kept his mouth _shut_ , had not given into such _childish_ behavior, Brom would have more than likely told him. He probably would have told him more than that. The man had been all set to finally tell both him and Eragon _something_ before the raid had interrupted him. Morzan suspected that now he would never know what Brom had been about to say—or at least he wouldn’t for a long while.

“Morgan?”

Morzan—or Morgan, he supposed; whichever name he went by really didn’t matter at this point. He turned to find Eragon standing behind him. “What do _you_ want?” He didn’t want to deal with the Rider right now. He didn’t want to deal with anyone. However, his tone didn’t seem to dissuade the other in the slightest.

“To see how you were doing,” Eragon said. “You sounded upset earlier.”

Morzan stiffened. “You heard?”

“We all heard.” Eragon shrugged. “You were _really_ loud.”

Morzan nodded as calmly as possible, though on the inside, his emotions were still a swirling mess. It was one thing to lose control of himself in front of Brom or Eragon, even if he didn’t like it, but it was something else entirely for people so far beneath him, like Jeod and Helen, to whiteness him in such a weakened state.

“You _all_ heard?” he said slowly.

Eragon nodded. “I’d be upset too, if I were you. Are you feeling better at least?”

“Do I _look_ like I’m feeling better,” Morzan practically snarled.

Eragon did seem taken aback that time, and Morzan inwardly cursed himself. Right now, Eragon was the closest—and only—person he had to a friend, and it wouldn’t do to drive him away.

“I-I’m sorry,” Morzan quickly tried to amend. “I didn’t mean—” And just like that, his tears were back. Something was _wrong_ with him, something had to be for him to act like this. Morzan’s memory was admittedly rather short, but he couldn’t remember ever feeling this upset before.

“Here,” Eragon said. Then, before Morzan knew it, the boy had grabbed him by the hand and was leading him down the hallway. Inside the room at the end, Morzan could see some of the damage the house had suffered in the raid. The bed lay flipped over, and the dresser was on its side. Nothing in the room looked untouched.

“Is the whole house like this?” Morzan asked.

“Just about,” Eragon responded. “You might want to avoid Jeod and Helen for a while.” He pulled open the window shutters. “Unfortunately, the whole city’s looking for you right now, so until you can turn invisible again without passing out”—Morzan felt his face heat up, but at least he no longer felt like crying anymore—“you also can’t be out in the streets either.” Eragon pushed himself up onto the sill and swung his legs over. “Come on then.”

“I thought you _just_ said—”

“It leads to the backyard,” Eragon explained. “Hopefully no one will see us.”

 _Hopefully_? Whatever Eragon planned didn’t seem all that thought out. “By ‘no one’,” Morzan said, “I assume you mean Brom and not the city watch.”

At Eragon’s grin, Morzan tossed the book to the floor joined him up on the sill. Vines covered the outside of Jeod’s house, and using them and the deep groves between the stones making up the outside wall, Morzan readied himself for the downward climb. The house was only two stories tall, but right now, it seemed a lot higher. Regardless, Morzan wasn’t all that bothered by it. He supposed that as a Dragon Rider, he was probably used to impossible heights. Two stories had to be nothing.

“What’s in the backyard?” he asked. The stables were back here, and he could see Murtagh tied up with the other horses, but other than that, there wasn’t anything.

“Nothing,” Eragon said as they reached the ground. “But we can go to the apothecary from back here.”

Morzan frowned. “I don’t think its owner wants to see me right now either.” Considering the condition the guards had left Jeod’s house in, Morzan suspected that Angela’s shop hadn’t fared much better. The woman was probably furious with him too.

“You’d be surprised,” Eragon said. “I went to see her while you were sleeping.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t want to stay at Jeod’s. Everyone was just so angry,” he said. “I know I should have stayed to help clean up—I could probably fix plenty of broken things with magic—it’s just that, I needed to go out for a bit.”

Morzan nodded.

“Angela asked about you,” Eragon said as they reached the ground.

He snapped his head up. “What did she say?”

“That she wanted to see you,” Eragon responded. “She’s _really_ something else.”

They slunk around the house, ducking under windows in the process, until they reached the apothecary. Its backdoor lay wide open, and an odd cat sat at the entrance, staring at them. It stood up a moment later and padded its way into the shop. Together, Morzan and Eragon followed after it. Inside, Angela stood among turned over tables and broken vials. She swept some of the debris around with her broom, but she didn’t look to be making much progress in the cleaning. The shop was a _disaster_. Morzan couldn’t see one item that wasn’t damaged in some way.

Unwelcome guilt bubbled up inside him. This was all _his_ fault after all. If he hadn’t gotten lost, if he had remembered to keep his hood up, if he had found somebody else— _anybody_ else—to ask for directions, none of this would have happened.

And worst of all, he highly doubted that the guards wouldn’t eventually be back with more questions for both Jeod and Angela.

The cat made its way to Angela’s side, and both she and the creature stared at each other for a long moment. Then, she looked up at both him and Eragon.

“Ah,” she said, smiling. “The boy who looks like an elf.” She leaned against her broom, taking a long look at him. Her gaze wasn’t intimidating or invasive, and Morzan was a little surprised that she didn’t seem shocked at his physical appearance. He had forgotten his hood again. Not even Eragon had reminded him to bring it.

Although, he supposed at this point, it didn’t matter. She and Eragon had obviously talked about him earlier, and Morzan had to wonder who this woman was that Eragon seemed to trust her so much.

“The next time you tell the guards you’re coming to see me,” Angela said, “you better come see me. Otherwise, you’re a liar.”

Morzan slowly nodded.

Angela then turned on her heel and left the two of them alone with the cat, which sat staring at him with haunting eyes. Uncomfortable, Morzan shrank away from the gaze. When Angela returned, it was with a second broom. She shoved one into each of their hands.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “This is, after all, your fault, Morzan.”

Morzan sputtered, shocked. He turned to Eragon. “You _told_ her?”

“She _knew_ ,” Eragon said. “She knew who you were the minute she saw us knocking on Jeod’s door.”

When Eragon had said that she asked about him earlier, he had assumed that Eragon had only mentioned him in passing, as the odd-looking boy called “Morgan”. He didn’t even consider that she would have known his real identity as well.

“You can talk as you clean,” Angela demanded. “Come on. You both have magic. Let’s get to it. Afterwards, I want to know your opinion on frogs and toads.”


End file.
